It…well, it certainly wasn’t anything like the sort of gay bars Scott had ventured into when he’d first come out. Clean lines and minimalist decor were conspicuously absent. No modern art hung on the walls, no fashionably dressed guys gathered in little groups, drinking cocktails and sneering at those not considered fashionable enough.
It wasn’t like the club where he’d spent so many evenings staring at Joe either. There was no music; no dance floor filled with men grinding against each other in time to the beat.
Even somewhat obscured by the stale smoke that hung in the air, this looked more like the kind of place where Scott could imagine a serial killer picking up his victims.
Men dressed in grubby denim and well-worn leather stood along a dark, wooden bar that was scarred by what looked horrifyingly like knife marks.
Scott felt the men’s eyes moving over him. Their gazes weren’t so much like a physical caress, as like being grabbed by the throat and held helpless, his feet several inches off the floor as he was twisted around and inspected from every angle.
Scott took a step back. His shoulder hit the door. As quickly as he’d began to retreat, he stepped forward again, an unexpected wave of determination bubbling up inside him.
He had as much right to be there as anyone else. No, he hadeven moreright, because he was there on Joe’s orders.
Go through the door at the back of the main bar—between the jukebox and the door to the gents.
Head down, frantically trying to appear as inconspicuous as possible, Scott strode through the bar area as quickly as he could without breaking into a run. His jeans and shirt had felt like perfectly normal clothing a few minutes ago. Now, they marked him out as someone who didn’t belong—as a potential victim.
Scott took a deep breath. His lungs filled with hot, smoky air. He almost choked on the stale stench of spilt alcohol.
Joe wouldn’t send him somewhere that wasn’t safe. Scott repeated that to himself several times, and hoped like hell his read on Joe was right.
Relief swept through Scott as he finally spotted the sign for the gents. A moment later, a broken jukebox came into view. Just as Joe had promised, another door stood between them.
Like a man who’d been wandering in the desert for several decades, Scott rushed toward the shimmering oasis. He half expected it to vanish like some imaginary palm tree, but the door handle was reassuringly solid. He pushed the door open and stepped into a smaller, even gloomier, room.
Cubicles lined one wall. It had obviously been the ladies room in some former incarnation of the pub—one where women had been more welcome. Scott shook his head, wondering if there was a special term for a gay man who had a fetish for ladies’ bathrooms, and if Joe knew he had it.
Go into the second stall on the left.
Scott nudged the appropriate cubicle door open. Stepping inside, he automatically closed it and locked it behind him. A bare light bulb hung above his head, casting a ghostly yellow glow over the stains on the walls.
Barely a moment passed before Scott heard the door into the bathroom swing open, then click closed again. He held his breath, straining his hearing in the hope of identifying the man who’d just joined him.
Footsteps crossed the tiled floor. They sounded heavy, solid. Maybe the guy was wearing boots—maybe the kind of boots Joe liked to wear? The cubicle door to the left of Scott’s stall squeaked. Two more footsteps echoed through the room. Another creak—whoever the guy was, he’d closed the door behind him.
Scott turned toward the rickety cubicle wall that now represented the only barrier between himself and the other man.
As if weighed down with concrete boots, his gaze descended as unstoppably as a mob informant until it reached the rough hole punched through the wall between the cubicles.
Scott’s pulse raced faster and faster. He should have been horrified. He knew that deep down in a part of his brain that lay so close to instinct, Scott had never thought to question anything it had told him before.
His hand went to his fly and pressed against the dark blue denim. He hadn’t been imagining it. He really was as hard as he’d ever been in his life. His grimy surroundings weren’t putting him off. If anything, they were doing the exact opposite.
Scott stroked his shaft through the straining fabric. Adrenaline rushed through his veins, making him acutely aware of every part of his body, but his gaze never wavered from the glory hole.
He tried to take a deep breath, but there didn’t seem to be enough oxygen. The man on the other side of the wall had stolen it all. Scott pressed the heel of his hand harder against his cock, massaging it firmly through the denim.
At this rate, it would be a toss-up if he’d came in his jeans or hyperventilated first.
The sound of a zip being drawn down filled the room. Scott looked away from the hole for a moment, quite prepared to believe his hand had unzipped his own jeans without giving his brain a chance to state an opinion on the matter.
No. He was still done up and neatly tucked away.
Scott looked back toward the cubicle wall just in time to see the tip of an erection appear through the glory hole. As he watched, several inches of shaft slid into view.
Kneel.
Suck.
