And when that happens…
I will never let him go.
Starlight is built for forgetting.
Low ceilings. Velvet shadows. Music that slides under the skin, stroking you internally in the most erotic way. The piano bleeds into slow harmonious notes, repetitive enough to sand down the sharpest feelings. To make you forget whatever is going on outside of those doors in the real world. This place is a haven for someone like me, where dark thoughts take form into something real. Where your imagination can run so freely that it feels real, and when you leave you crave for it to come true.
So it’s no surprise that it works, helping dull the thoughts of Leo that have racked my brain all day. It’s taken all my strength not to go to his shitty apartment and kick his door down and bring him back to my penthouse and chain him to my bed. The things I would do to him, the things that I would make him enjoy, and make him beg for more. Turn him into an Ethan addict.
I groan low in the back of my throat and refocus onthe music, closing my eyes to let it wash over me. I’m sitting in the corner booth, back to the wall, whiskey untouched as I’m too consumed by the music as it loops again. The woman’s voice dissolves into liquid gold and reassembles itself into something almost tender. My pulse slows to match it. My hands rest loosely on the table.
But the mood soon sours, when someone laughs. Too loud. Too sudden.
I follow the sound to a man at the bar, someone who doesn’t belong here. Expensive jacket, and cheap awareness. He slaps the counter, calls to the bartender like the room belongs to him. The sound punches straight through the music and my jaw tightens. Who the fuck does this guy think he is? I turn back to the music, in the hope that the asshole shuts the fuck up.
Again. The fucker laughs again.
Everything in my head goes very quiet as my true self takes over. There is nothing I can do to stop it in these situations, and my body goes on autopilot. I stand and cross the room without urgency, stopping beside his barstool. He doesn’t notice until my shadow over his head interrupts whatever he finds so fucking hilarious.
“Can you not?” I ask softly.
He squints at me. “What?”
“Your laugh, it’s ruining my evening.”
He scoffs. “It’s a bar, man.”
I lean closer. Close enough that he smells the whiskey on my breath.
“Lower your voice.”
There is nothing threatening in my tone, but that is the problem. He studies my face, trying to decide which social rule applies. Predictably, because he’s an idiot, he chooses the wrong one.
“Or what?” he says, putting on a show.
I hold his gaze and say nothing. Let him look into my vacant soul where anger should be. His smile falters, contemplating whether to keep his mouth shut, or be the big man. But it’s obvious this guy is the king of bad decisions. I just know he will want to impress his friend who is sitting next to him, watching us with an unsure posture as if he should leave, or needs the bathroom. I can’t quite tell.
Then the asshole finally speaks.
“Fuck off, you freak. It’s a free country,” he says, and goes to turn away, but not before my hand grabs his throat, pushing him backward into the bar, his ass dangling off the barstool as I squeeze as hard as I can. I zone out, distantly aware of him hitting out, but without enough force to stop me. I’m a lot bigger than he is. His friend is shouting, and I suddenly feel strong hands on my shoulders, trying to pull me back. But I can’t take my eyes off his red face, the fear in his eyes that are filled with tears and bloodshot. This feels so fucking good. Like a shot of my favorite vodka right into my veins.
“Ethan, let go,” a voice shouts, pulling at me. I recognize that voice, which is what brings me out of the haze. Dima.
“He’s ruining the show,” I say, continuing to hold onto this asshole.
“Yeah, yeah. Let go, we can deal with it,” Dima says, and another pair of hands grab at me, who I recognize as one of Dima’s men. So I let go. Begrudgingly.
“Jules, kick these two out. Boys, you’re barred,” Dima says to the two guys. Jules is manhandling the one I choked, who is coughing violently. Then Dima pulls me away from the action, and guides me back to my booth.
The music continues and everyone goes back to their normal spots.
As I slump into my seat, Dima sits opposite me, long legs stretched out, one eyebrow raised in quiet amusement. A few moments later, his husband Seb joins us, who I’ve met a few times. A sexy fucker with that rock boy vibe similar to Leo.
“Feeling better?” Dima asks.
“A little. I would’ve preferred for him to stop breathing.”
“What was that about?” Seb asks.
