Chapter One
Cantrell
“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.”
- Ecclesiastes 3:1 KJV
Nirvana’s Bar and Grill was not a place of complete tranquility or perfect happiness, but it was clean and, most importantly, cheap and dark. For a man like Cantrell—someone who valued privacy and discrepancy when out of uniform—Nirvana’s was where he went to escape for a few hours. He could sit at the back of the bar, unnoticed and unbothered, and simply be. It wasn’t much, but after the day he had had at Saint Anthony's Homeless Shelter, he was more than happy to be left alone for the first time in months. The shelter demanded more from him every visit, and at his age it wore him down more than he cared to admit. So, when a volunteer offered to stay the night in Cantrell’s place, he accepted.
Cantrell picked up his glass as he surveyed the crowd from his table. People from across Dunwich flocked to Nirvana’s for its cheap beer and greasy food. Watching them interact in a place like Nirvana’s reminded him of a life he used to chase. A life in which he cared only about himself. He tried not to think too long about it as it often kept him up late and sleep was already hard enough to come by.
A movement near the entry caught Cantrell’s attention. Glancing towards the front, he saw a familiar face. A man he first saw a little over a month ago. One Cantrell admired from afar as he did now. He ought to look away. Distract himself with the rowdy billiards game or read a few pages of scripture. Anything to keep him from falling into temptation yet again. His Bible sat untouched in his cardigan pocket.What is the harm, he thought, watching the man make his way through the bar,in simply looking?
Black curls that hung to his shoulders, dark umber skin that shimmered in the low light, and a black, trimmed beard that complimented his strong jawline. Cantrell took a long, slow sip from his iced tea. His eyes drifted down the man’s body, admiring the sway of his hips as he walked up to the bar. The jeans he wore hugged his backside in the most delectable way. What Cantrell wouldn’t give to be a free man. Able to enjoy God’s creations in sacrilegious ways.
He flushed when he realized where his mind went and pulled his eyes back up, only to catch the man sizing him up in a similar manner. A smirk formed on the man’s lips when they locked eyes. Cantrell looked away, ears burning and chest tight. Fear that the man would approach twisted through Cantrell like thorned vines. He dared another glance in the man’s direction only to see him conversing with the bartender, his eyes still on Cantrell. The man pushed off the edge of the bar and headed in his direction. Every fiber of Cantrell’s being told him torun. To escape before he was cornered and forced to face the consequences of his wandering eye.
The man stepped up to his table and Cantrell fought back the urge to apologize. How would he even begin to apologize? He couldn’t possibly admit that he was, by all technicality, checking out the man with zero intention of talking to him. Cantrell was simply admiring the man, nothing else. Which sounded much worse considering his age, not to mention his position. He cursed himself.
Cantrell swallowed the knot in his throat and looked up at the man. God save him now. The man was even prettier up close with his carefully done eyebrows and thick, long eyelashes. His lips were glossy, covered in some sort of balm.
Cantrell cleared his throat, pushing his glasses further up his nose and tried to sound the least bit off-putting as he said, “Can I help you?”
“I couldn’t help but notice you back here by yourself. Thought I would say hello since you’ve basically been eye-fucking me since I walked in.”
Cantrell nearly choked on his own breath at the crassness. “Sorry, I, um, I thought you looked familiar.” While it wasn’t necessarily a lie, his stomach still felt pitted as if it was. “Do I know you?”
“I don’t think so, but would you like to?” The man grinned and slid into the open chair in front of Cantrell, not waiting for a response.
His smile made Cantrell’s heart race. It held a boyish charm that hinted that he was younger than Cantrell originally thought.Dirty old man, he chastised himself,your wandering eye will be your downfall just as it was in the past. However, the thought did not stop him from committing the man’s face to memory. Cantrell noted the silver nose ring and small scar on his eyebrow from what he assumed was a rejected piercing. He met the man’seyes. Dark brown and filled with a hunger that Cantrell forgot existed in mankind. It reminded him of someone he knew from his past. Someone that sparked a fire in him the same way this man threatened to. A fire he prayed would not consume him as it had before.
“I hope you don’t mind me joining you,” he said, though Cantrell doubted he would leave if Cantrell said he did mind. He offered his hand. “I’m Illias.”
“Cantrell.” He took Illias’ hand to be polite, trying to ignore the way heat coursed through his body at an innocent touch.
“Strong grip, I like it.”
Cantrell’s face warmed. He needed to put an end to this before he gave the poor man the idea that this would progress past conversing. Yet Cantrell couldn’t bring himself to. Nor did he want to. The man,Illias, captured his attention in a way that unearthed memories Cantrell buried deep within himself. Memories that provoked a burning need within that desired more than talk, more than the scripture and prayer he would feed it later in hopes it would ease the hunger.
“What else do you like?” Cantrell’s voice was quiet and thin.
“Take me home and find out for yourself.”
Cantrell wanted to, God, how he wanted to. Nothing would taste sweeter than accepting Illias’ offer. Not the prayer that would fill Cantrell’s mouth later when he asked for forgiveness. Even the word itself would be bland in comparison to the taste of skin and sweat. He burned beneath the collar of his turtleneck.
“I’m sorry—I’m not looking for—I’m just here to relax,” he stumbled over his words, pushing them out before he got himself in trouble.
“Lucky for you, Cantrell, I can be quite relaxing.”
Hearing his own name spoken by another man shouldn't be as intoxicating as it was. Illias’ voice dripped like melted wax down Cantrell’s spine and pooled low in his gut.
“I hate to disappoint, but that’s not exactly what I meant.” Cantrell hoped he managed to hide his own disappointment. “But I wouldn’t mind a conversation. If that’s alright with you,” he added, feeling more senile by the minute for his foolish behavior.
Illias tilted the mouth of the bottle in his direction. “A conversation then.”
Relief flooded through Cantrell. He shifted in his chair, adjusting his body to properly face Illias while they spoke. “What brings you to Nirvana’s?”
“Looking for a hot piece of ass or someone who wants a hot piece of ass.”
