“Don’t have to rub it in,” Dray said, shaking a corn dog at Tripp. The alpha leaned forward and took a bite out of the end of it.
“Ugh! My corn dog! Rude!” Dray stared at the neat bite taken out and yelped when Tripp leaned forward, engulfed the entirety of it, and closed his lips, eyes hooding as his cheeks hollowed. Dray could imagine that mouth on his di—Tripp pulled back and left a clean stick, swallowing with one throat-squeezing gulp. Perks of being with a snake.
Tripp licked his lips. “Wouldn’t dare rub things in. It just means that if we’re together, you’ll need some freedom to go out and explore yourself some.”
“And wind up dicked down by another random alpha.” Dray scowled, and Tripp rolled his eyes.
“You won’t make that mistake again. Besides, you don’t look for dicking when you have dick at home, a dick that knows what you like.” Tripp had a point. A very good point.
“And you know what I like?” Dray frowned.
“I know you like Scream Queen comics. I saw your ankle tattoo and started reading it. I’m on season four. Have you readDungeon Emperor?” Dray cleaned up their mess and packed the napkins and smeared mustard away into a neat pile before turning to a nearby trash can to toss it. He left a few bucks on the table for the cleaner, and they rose as one.
“I did! I read all of it but it’s on hiatus.” Dray perked up quite a bit. In all the time they’d spent together, he’d known Tripp read comics, but not which ones or if even if they had much in common.
“I know. I reached out to the artist and offered them some part-time work with better pay and less stress so they could work on the comic more. No response.” Tripp huffed, and Dray thought the gesture rather cute.
“So, you’re that nice to everyone?”
“If you have the resources, you help others. My mom taught me that. Dad is a bit of a Scrooge when it comes to money, but Mom didn’t come from a wealthy family. They had connections, but no capital, but she was unendingly generous.”
“Was?” Dray hesitated.
Tripp sighed heavily. “Politics. She just stopped having her own opinions and went with my dad and started parroting social media shit. It’s why I got into the algorithm manipulation.”
“Ahhh. Speaking of… Have you been boosting our social media pages or something? I’ve noticed lots more traffic and bookings of late.” Dray stared at him accusatorily and Tripp didn’t meet his gaze.
“That’s an odd thing to accuse me of.” He cleared his throat.
“Uh-huh. You really are a sweetheart.” Dray shook his head and picked out a putter and a ball from a rack by the wall where a disinterested teen clocked their bands.
They opened the door to the sea of black and neon colors around them, and when Tripp entered, he stared at his wristband as the company’s logo lit up from the paper. He stared at it like he’d never seen blacklight reactive ink before. And if Dray wasn’t mistaken, something sad made his eyes go hard and passed away.
Dray reached for his hand and held it, fingers curling over his own. Rows of scales that he’d doodled over himself lit up from his flesh, a testament to his pride in his own snake heritage.
Tripp froze, his body stiff as a board until he reached for Dray’s hand, turning it back and forth in a mesmerized yet familiar way. “I think I’m going to be sick…”
He stumbled back, dropped his putter, and left from the door as the attendant told him that it was an entrance only. He ran toward the bathroom, and the door slammed, leaving Dray alone, full of questionable corn dogs…and someone else’s kid.
Dray stared at his scales, remembering that night in the club, the way the alpha that took him had fawned over those tattoos. It’d been a highlight of the evening. Just the wonder in his eyes, the way he adored the artwork. He left through the entrance as the woman complained at him, but Dray only gave her the finger and sat down on a nearby bench.
“As I told your boyfriend there, this is an exit only and if you want to go back in, it’ll be another entry fee each!” She glared.
“Or I could call the health department. Those corn dogs made him sick.” Dray sneered and idly wondered if Tripp had an intolerance. Snakes normally didn’t get sick like that.
The woman had surprisingly little to say after the remark, and Dray waited…and he waited.
After twenty minutes, he sent a text asking if Tripp was alright.
We need to talk. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.Tripp’s text made Dray’s heart fall and tears stung his eyes. He wondered what he’d done. Was he too prickly? Too coy? Did he not put out soon enough? Did he miss a social cue, or were his tattoos a problem?
A moment later, Tripp came out, hands still damp—thank goodness. His face was a mask of tragedy, and he grabbed his arm, not forcefully but certainly not with the gentle care Dray’d come to expect.
“Tripp? Did I do something—”
“No.” His hard voice cracked in his throat, and they made their way to his car, where he opened Dray’s door for him, let him in, and ran around before starting the car to turn on some gentle heat that was much appreciated. “It’s something I did. We did. I—”
He slumped over his steering wheel and handed his phone to Dray. It was an email chain with the club he’d gone to, security footage, and pictures of him in the crowd—really wasted.
