“I do know, actually,” Dylan said. “Before I met him, I was lonely too. I’d been hooking up with my best mate and his missus, and I fell in love with them by mistake. Breaking away from that hurt like hell, and the club was going to be my refuge until Angelo came along. I never got the chance to see if it would’ve done me any good, but I don’t think it would have.”
“How does you meeting your Italian stallion in a BDSM chamber help me?”
“It doesn’t. My point is that if messing around in the club hasn’t made you happy yet, it probably isn’t going to. I love playing as much as the next fella, but sex can’t be a crutch, Rhys. People get hurt—you get hurt.”
“Yeah, yeah.” But Dylan’s words hit home more than Rhys cared to admit. Playing in the club had always been an escape... from work, from life, but it had grown to more than that recently, to the point where he’d started looking for the same satisfaction in the outside world—pubs and bars—and found it hard to live with the disappointment when it didn’t match up. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Go home,” Dylan said. “You remember what you told me about taking LSD?”
Rhys bit out a laugh. “What does me dropping acid when I was eighteen and raving have to do with anything?”
“Everything. I’ve never been into class As, but the theory matches up. You told me one of the reasons people have bad trips was because they take those kind of drugs when they’re in a bad frame of mind—so the drugs amplify that and give them the worst night of their lives. Perhaps hooking up in the club is the same. You can’t deny that it’s a high... for all of us, not just you.”
Ugh. Rhys hated it when Dylan got all psycho-analytical and hated it even more when he was right. Rhys’s drunk-arse theory about popping tabs aside, anonymous hook-ups had become his drug of choice, and now it had stopped working.
“Go home, mate,” Dylan said again.
Rhys groaned. “But I’m so fucking horny.”
“Not the right kind of horny if you’re having an anxiety attack in a sex club. Go home and have a wank.”
The ridiculousness of the conversation hit Rhys all at once. He laughed and covered his face with a hand. “Shit. I’m such a disaster. Sorry for chucking it at you.”
“Don’t be sorry. I’d much rather you called me than you do something you don’t want to actually do. Club life is supposed to be fun. When it stops, it’s time to chip off home.”
The agitation burning Rhys’s chest began to dissipate. He let Dylan go and got up from the bench to retrieve his clothes from his locker.
Dressing without the damp residue of a shower felt odd—he’d never left the club with dry hair—but when he got outside, the cool night breeze blew through his mind, taking some of the chaos with it and leaving behind a certainty that Dylan’s musings had hit the mark. Since he and Angelo had taken an extended break from partying, Rhys’s choice of playmates had varied so much that he could barely remember them—orgies, gangbangs, glory hole adventures, but despite being a regular at the club, the anonymity had grown, eclipsing the affection Rhys had so desperately craved when he’d wandered into the club that very first time. He thought of Dylan and Angelo again, of Harry and the true love he’d found with Joe down in Cornwall.
I want what they have.
Shame he’d have to settle for a solitary pint on the way home.
* * *
Jevon Campbell stared at the bottom of his third empty pint glass. Somehow, it seemed more interesting than the ones that had come before it, but that might’ve been because he hadn’t had a beer in months. The first one hadn’t touched the sides; the second had given him hiccups. And now? Well. Now he was that kind of tipsy that could send him to the moon or put him flat on his arse.
Another beer was a sure-fire path to the latter, but he bought one anyway and went back to stealing furtive glances around the bar. The gay pub was his favourite haunt when he was in the country long enough to indulge his own queerness. Watching. Wishing. Wondering. Absorbing the vibe of men who were comfortable enough to touch and kiss at the bar. To tip each other a wink and leave together, sliding into a waiting cab, or worse, the grimy bathrooms at the back of the bar. Heat pooled in Jevon’s groin as he pictured what the latest departing couple would do once they were alone. Kissing, sucking, fucking.Damn it. His imagination was a live porn feed that didn’t match his proverbial balls.
Deflated, he retied the scarf around his escaping dreads and pushed his half-finished pint away, prepared to abandon it in favour of claiming a bed on his cousin’s couch for the night. He had an early start in the morning, so another epic failure at picking up blokes was probably just as well.
“Aw, don’t leave. You’re the only fella in here under fifty.”
Jevon blinked. Somehow, lost in the haze of his own misery, he’d missed the stool beside him becoming occupied.Jesus. How did I miss him sitting down?Tall, with inky hair and dark stubble that was just thick enough to be called a beard, the man wasgorgeous. Jevon reached blindly for his glass. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”
“Good.” The man’s smile made his eyes gleam. “Because I’ve had a shit day and I could use a pint with someone who isn’t cruising this place for a Grindr hook-up.”
Grindr. Another arena that terrified and fascinated Jevon in equal parts. “I’m not cruising. Just having a beer, man.”
The dark-eyed man nodded. “Awesome. I’ll get you another. I’m Rhys, by the way.”
“Jevon.” They shook hands, Rhys’s white skin alabaster pale against Jevon’s own Brit-Caribbean complexion. Rhys’s palm was warm and rough, and the heat of his touch spread through Jevon like wildfire. Like they’d met before, and the current zipping through Jevon’s veins was a reconnection of something that had been there for years.What the fuck?Shocked, he shivered and knocked back the rest of his pint in a desperate swallow.
Rhys didn’t appear to notice and turned away to attract the barman while Jevon inhaled a shaky breath and tried to get himself under control.Christ. It’s not like you’ve never talked to a bloke before.
“IPA do you?” Rhys asked.
Jevon nodded, and a fourth pint of ale appeared in front of him. He eyed it warily, already half cut, but the reckless side he rarely indulged won out for once, and Rhys slid the beer closer to him. “Thanks.”
