City of Ruin - Mark Charan Newton [50]
In a fake accent, he asked someone nearby where he could go to pay for it. Directions were issued, gestures barely discernible in the dimness. He felt his way around the corridors until he reached where he hoped to be. A moment later, he’d chosen his man, one with oil glistening on his skin, slightly perfumed with patchouli, a scent aiming to relax him.
‘Don’t worry if this is your first time.’
‘It’s not.’ Brynd tried not to laugh. How much cock had he sucked by now? He couldn’t remember. He threw the man some Sota coins – and didn’t even look at how many.
They found a room shrouded in darkness, with a decent enough bed, and everything proceeded by touch. Brynd liked that, his vision removed, it meant his other senses were heightened. Liked the feeling of not having to make decisions, of following someone else’s orders. The man tried to remove Brynd’s mask but a firm grip on his thick wrist thwarted the gesture. Instead, Brynd tilted it slightly to one side, and kissed him . . . and his primitive instincts dispelled that inert, empty sensation he felt with a complete stranger, because this was now a body at least, another man, more than he’d known in a while: meat and tongue and cock. This one was thuggish and direct, and Brynd tenderly explored the thick ridges of muscle moving against him, the thick arms around his waist. Fuck, that feels so, so good . . . Brynd turned, reaching behind his body, and eased the man’s dick out of his breeches and wanked him until he was hard.
‘You have protection I take it?’ Brynd asked. A few movements to one side, and the man-whore was safe. A trustworthy establishment, at least. He made sure some oil from the man’s torso acted as lubrication and, as he leant forwards on his knuckles, he purged his mind of thoughts.
*
Brynd departed with no attempt at conversation, no goodbyes, just headed back out through the confusing dark corridors – smacking straight into the cold night air of Villiren, back into his normal life. A quick fuck to relieve the built-up stress – or replace it with guilt, whatever.
As he left, he couldn’t help but think he was being followed. Maybe it was his paranoia. These streets could do that to you, but still . . .
Was there actually someone there?
In the shadows?
THIRTEEN
Another row with Beami, another bad start to the evening. All she ever did was spend her time with those stupid relics, tinkering away at them, trying to make some money. Like they needed any more of that – she wouldn’t listen to him though, just wanted to do her own thing. Those kind of interests didn’t seem to matter at the start – back before the ice, she’d loved the stability he allowed her, his wild edge, his passion and exuberance. And tonight came another pointless discussion on the state of their marriage before he stormed out.
Right there and then, he wanted to go out and sleep with some other woman, and aside from the obvious repercussions, here was the real bite: that was just the kind of thinking that had got him into this mess. Years ago that was all he ever did, floating from woman to woman, uncommitted and angry, and just for a moment he anchored on one. He had that intense fling with an alcoholic chain-smoker . . . what was her name? It didn’t matter. He used to let her strike him. That was before he discovered she was in a constant state of anger because of repressing her urges for vampyrism.
Ultimately, it was a disease he caught from a cheap fuck. Those were his low days. While he was wasted on drugs, he’d asked her to bite him – he’d pleaded with her and, despite her refusals, she had eventually capitulated. Her fangs appeared and she plunged them into his neck – but because of so much alcohol in her blood and too many substances in his own, something went