That was, until Marc’s characteristic cologne slapped him back into the harsh reality.
He and Oliver had just returned, and as if the club wasn’t big enough, they stopped a couple of meters away from Chris. They kept talking, ignoring him as if he weren’t there, which he appreciated. Didn’t feel like engaging in their conversation or having a staring contest filled with nothing but hostile silence between them. But he also wished they could have gone somewhere else.
Several minutes went by and the guitarist found himself studying them. Their expressions. Their body language. How fucking close they were.
Chris was getting fed up with this night out, discomfort spreading inside of him like a virus. He didn’t want to be here. Didn’t even want to be in his own skin. It was itchy and felt foreign.
He was about to leave and go get himself another highball when Aussie Drummer looked in his direction while still talking to Marc. The bassist turned his face to the side so his ear was closer to his mouth, and right at that moment, his eyes locked with Chris’s, sending his heart down to his stomach and then up into his throat.
It was a second, but long enough for his mind to retrieve flashes of the night before. His sensorial memory hadn’t let go of the bergamot scent mixed with musky and citrus notes that had mentally incapacitated him for a couple of hours. It hadn’t let go of the warmth of his friend’s touch nor the subtleties of the rasp in his voice when he was moaning, and how intoxicated he’d felt.
Fuck me!
Chris was seething. Paranoid. None of that was real. It was just a mirage, the product of the haze they’d been in.
Adamant to get rid of his conscience, the guitarist walked past them and strode towards the bar. Before he could make it there, he bumped into a chick who had been flirting and talking to him before. Yes, she had been talking to him. Or to herself, depending on how you looked at it. He had been on another frequency the whole time and didn’t even remember her name.
“Shit,” she said, pulling her arm away as the drink dripped down her hand.
“Fuck, sorry.”
She grinned. “It’s just a drink. Don’t worry. Though… maybe you should buy me another one, to make up for the wasted alcohol.” She gestured with her half-empty glass.
He flashed her a cocky grin. “That I can do.”
“Where’s the fire, though?” She raised her voice above the blaring music, brushing her free hand over her soaked cleavage.
“I was just…” Without realizing it, his gaze followed her motions and fell to her tits. The fabric of her white tank top revealed the lace bra she was wearing underneath, a sight his dick seemed to enjoy. This was the only sign he needed to confirm he wasn’t losing his mind. He was still attracted to women, and after the turmoil whirling in his head the entire day, he could use a release—at least this one wasn’t so self-destructive.
Just then, the sensation of someone staring at him sent a shiver down his spine. Chris raised his head, looking around for a moment before he saw Marc. His expression was stoic, but he had a brow raised as they stared at each other. It was as if he were challenging him, forcing his hand to prove what had happened between them had only been a slip-up.
“What if instead of buying you another drink”—he leaned in closer to the girl’s ear, keeping his gaze locked on the bassist—“we go into the bathroom and I make it up to you there?”
As he straightened, the blonde walked over to one of the tall tables scattered all over the nightclub and placed her glass on it.
When she reached Chris again, she grabbed his wrist and yanked him towards the restrooms. With that and a devilish smirk planted on his face, he turned away from Marc and followed her.
Careless and hectic, the guitarist pushed the woman into one of the stalls. With their tongues entangled and hands touching everywhere, they undid each other’s clothes. His belt. The zipper of her shorts. The way her plump mouth fit between his made Chris hungry for more. He sucked her bottom lip. She purred and his dick jumped. This was exactly what he needed to get rid of the monotone conversation he’d been having with himself all day.
“Oh fuck, you’re big,” she husked as her palm slipped inside his pants. “And this? Fuck… This is hot,” she said when she noticed his piercing.
He was over those stereotypical lines he’d heard more times than he cared to admit. Ignoring her comment, Chris continued with his attack, moving down her throat and peppering her collarbone with gentle bites. When he reached her boobs, he pushed them together with both hands and drew a wet trail. She tasted like orange juice and vodka.
“I know you said you would make it up to me, but here’s the thing about me,” she rasped against his mouth, “I love sucking cock.”
He would have told her not to. As vicious as he got when screwing someone, this place was soiled as hell—graffiti walls and floors so dirty you could hardly see the white of the tiles. But the second it took the guitarist to process her words, she was already on her knees, pulling his pants and underwear down. Next thing he knew, his dick was touching the back of her throat.
“Fuck!”
With his fingers weaved through her blonde locks, Chris looked down at how his length disappeared over and over with every bob of her head. He got dizzy for a moment, or maybe it was the alcohol finally working its magic because he swore the room had staggered.
Pulling him out with a pop, Blonde looked up at him and planted open-mouth kisses along his shaft, staring up at him.
Something snapped inside of him, and as fast as she had driven him to the edge, he was pushed down into the abyss. Images from the night before blended with the present. Her body morphed into a muscular frame. Her fair hair turned black. Her baby blue irises turned dark. Chris stopped seeing her, and Marc materialized before his eyes, no matter how hard he tried to get rid of the hallucination.
She swallowed him once again, and he groaned. Out of physical pleasure. Out of emotional pain. Chris fell apart, his soul being ripped piece by piece as a whirlwind of flashes from different moments in the past flooded his mind. Blurry faces of the dozens of women he’d fucked over the years. Legs up on his shoulder. Moans. His father constantly complaining about how gay people should keep things private. Marc smiling at him on the stage. His voice when, in a commanding tone, he’d told the guitarist to let him take care of everything the night before. His daring glance from earlier.
Chris’s ears buzzed and bile crept up his throat as an unwavering need to demonstrate to the world and himself that he wasn’t into dudes, that this was and would always be what turned him on, punched him in the chest.
