• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

The muted sounds were as incredible as the visual and Blay had to shift in his seat, his body hardening. He wanted to be in there, on his knees, led by Qhuinn’s hands. He wanted to be the one whose mouth was full. He wanted to be responsible for making Qhuinn pant and strain.

Not going to be in the cards.

Man, what the hell? The guy had fucked people in clubs and bathrooms and cars and alleys and occasionally in beds. He’d done ten thousand strangers, men and women and males and females alike . . . he was Wilt Chamberlain with fangs. To be denied was like getting shut out of a public park.

Blay took another shot at looking away, but the ripple of a deep moan once again brought his eyes to the—

Qhuinn’s head had turned so that he was staring out of the curtain. And as their eyes met, his mismatched stare flashed . . . almost like he was turned on more by who was watching him, than who he was hooking up with.

Blay’s heart stopped. Especially as Qhuinn dragged the woman up, spun her around, and bent her over the desk. One yank and her jeans were to her knees. And then it was . . .

Jesus Christ. Was it possible his best friend was thinking like he was?

Except then Qhuinn pulled the woman’s upper body against his chest. After he whispered something in her ear, she laughed and turned her head to the side so he could kiss her. Which he did.

You stupid fuck, Blay thought to himself. You stupid motherfucker.

The guy knows precisely who he’s doing . . . and who he’s not.

Shaking his head, he muttered, “John, you mind if I go have a cigarette outside?”

When John shook his head, Blay got to his feet and put the clothes on the seat. To the tattoo guy he said, “I just flip the lock?”

“Yup, and you can leave it open if you’re just outside the door.”

“Thanks, man.”

“No prob.”

Blay walked away from the buzz of the tattoo gun and the symphony of groans behind that curtain, slipping out of the shop and leaning against the building right next to the entrance. Palming up a flat pack of Dunhill reds, he withdrew a cigarette, put it between his lips, and lit the thing with his black lighter.

The first drag was heaven. Always the best out of all that followed.

As he exhaled, he hated that he read into things, saw connections that weren’t there, misinterpreted actions and stares and casual touches.

Pathetic, really.

Qhuinn hadn’t been looking up as he’d been getting blown to meet Blay’s eyes. He’d been checking on John Matthew. And he’d spun that woman around and taken her from behind because that was how he liked it.

Fuckin’ A . . . hope didn’t so much spring eternal as it drowned out common sense and self-preservation.

Inhaling hard, he was so tangled in his own thoughts that he failed to notice the shadow at the head of the alley across the street. Unaware he was being watched, he smoked along, the chilly spring night eating up the puffs that rose from his lips.

The realization that he couldn’t keep going like this anymore was a deep freeze that went right into his bones.

FOUR

“Okay, I think we’re done.”

John felt a last dragging pull across his shoulder and then the tattoo gun went silent. Sitting up from the rest he’d been curled against for the last two hours, he stretched his arms over his head and pulled his torso back into shape.

“Gimme a sec and I’ll clean you up.”

As the human male sprayed some paper towels with antibacterial wash, John settled his weight on his spine once again, and let the tingling hum from the needle’s work reverberate through his whole body.

In the lull, an odd memory came to him, one he hadn’t thought of for years. It was from his days of living at Our Lady’s orphanage, back when he hadn’t known what he truly was.

One of the church’s benefactors had been a rich man who owned a big house on the shores of Saranac Lake. Every summer, the orphans had been invited to go up for a day and play on his football-field-size lawn and go for rides on his beautiful wooden boat and eat sandwiches and watermelon.

John had always gotten a sunburn. No matter how much goo they