Benji (The Wylde Street Boys #1)

1. Nolan O’Brien

ONE

NOLAN O’brIEN

“Okay, O’Brien, pen down,” Dominic said from my door.

I looked up in surprise, having lost track of the time. A quick glance at the city from my office window showed it was now dark. The office behind Dominic was quiet and empty.

“Shit,” I mumbled, slinging my glasses across my desk and pressing my finger and thumb into my eyeballs. “Didn’t realise the time.”

“You also didn’t realise it was Friday night and that you’ve had your head in that case file and completely missed lunch.”

The twinge in my empty stomach agreed.

Dominic gestured to me and my desk. “So close your laptop. Put the files away. It’s Friday night. Whisky and wings at 180, my friend.” Then he clapped his hands. “Now, now, now.”

I rolled my eyes at him as I stood up, plucked my suit jacket from the back of my chair, threw everything into my messenger bag, and followed him out. I had to admit, it sounded good.

Dominic Lowing was forty-six years old. Exactly ten years older than me, and he was my senior at work. But from the minute we met, the day I’d started at the Office of Director of Public Prosecution’s office, we just clicked. Maybe it was because we were the only two openly gay men at the firm. Maybe it was because we both worked long hours and understood how the game of law needed to be played.

Though I’m sure it was because we were both also members of the 180 club above Wylde Street, just around the corner from Oxford Street. An exclusive—meaning expensive—club for gay men. It was similar to a jazz bar—dark interior, mood lighting. It wasn’t a place for cruising. There were no backrooms or bathroom blowjobs. There was plenty of that down on Oxford Street, if that was what you wanted. The 180 club was purely a professional men’s club, where we could sit and talk business with a whisky in our hand.

Usually, after a few said whiskies and having solved the problems of the world, then we sought out the cruising options on street level.

Or found a backroom or a shady bathroom blowjob.

It was all I ever really had time for, and it suited me just fine.

Dominic and I stepped into the elevator. It was empty, so I thumped the button to the basement. “If I hear or see the name Barbieri one more time today,” I murmured. Then I let my head fall back and I groaned. “Whisky sounds really good right about now.”

Dominic chuckled. “It’s almost over,” he said. “And when Barbieri is behind bars for a really long time, there’ll be another case just like his. And another, and another.”

I barely resisted sighing. “Remind me why I do this?”

“Because you love it, and you’re good at it.”

Being on the prosecutor’s team for the state government, getting to watch the Supreme Court in action, had always been my dream. It was now my reality, and while, yes, I did love it, my career meant zero time for anything else.

“You know what you need tonight?” Dominic asked as we walked to my car.

I threw my briefcase in behind the driver’s seat and grinned at him over the roof of my Audi A5 Coupe. “I know exactly what I need.”

He laughed because it was something else we had in common. The need for a few drinks on a Friday night at 180 and a tight arse to fuck my stress away.

Dominic was exactly the same.

Traffic wasn’t too bad, and I found a park all too easily near Wylde Street, just off Oxford, as if the gods of terribly long weeks were finally on my side.

And as we walked to the door of 180, three young guys a few metres down the street caught my eye. One in particular, with curly black hair, tight black jeans, and a loose green T-shirt. He was a rent boy for sure, and he stopped and looked me up and down, licking his lips and making my dick stir.

Oh, I bet his mouth was good.

“Maybe a quick fix first,” I said, and Dominic laughed as he grabbed my shoulders and led me to the entry.

“Wings and whisky first,” he said. “A pretty boy to fuck later.”

I protested weakly as we showed our IDs and Dominic shoved me into the elevator, and two minutes later, I had my first whisky in hand.

And then a second, and then a third.

We got talking with Leon and Marek, also lawyers, who had been in a committed relationship for twenty years. Nice guys, kinda quiet, and most people mistook their confidence for arrogance. It wasn’t superiority or conceit. They were just so well-loved and well-understood by each other, there was a sense of power and complete trust that was hard to deny.

It was hard for me to describe because I’d never experienced anything close to that. But I looked at them with envy.

They were also incredibly wealthy, and it was almost impossible to not look powerful wearing $15,000 suits.

I ordered some wings and mini tacos, and I probably had a few of each, but the whisky was hitting differently tonight.

Because I hadn’t eaten anything since a slice of toast on the way out the door at six o’clock this morning.

Then somehow it was almost midnight, and Dominic, Leon and Marek, and I decided to call it a night. Dominic wanted to see what the scene on Oxford Street looked like, but I just wanted to go home.

“Come on,” Dominic tried as we hit the street. “You’ll forget how tired you are once you find a pretty little thing to play with.”

I looked down the street to where the three guys had been before, but they were long gone now.

Oh well.

“Nah.” I waved him off. “Had enough. Going home. If I still want some arse when I get there, I’ll order some. They have apps for home deliveries now.”

Dominic laughed. “Fine. Suit yourself. Call for a lift,” he warned. “Get your car in the morning.”

Ugh. My car.

I’d forgotten.

“Evening, gentlemen,” Leon said. “We’re more in the mood for ordering in tonight as well.”

Marek slipped his arm through Leon’s and gave us a mock salute. “Next week, then,” he said as they disappeared.

Dominic gave me a hard clap on the shoulder. “Be good.”

“You be careful,” I said, and he grinned as he turned and walked toward the crowded bars and thumping music.

I shook my head. How was he ten years older than me when I was the one going home early?

I considered calling out and following him, but all those whiskies I’d had were starting to circle the drain. I pulled my phone out of my pocket, fully intending to call a lift, but I also pulled out my car keys...

And my car was just right there.

And my apartment wasn’t far. Barely a five-minute drive.

And I wasn’t that drunk.

I was just tired. And I hadn’t eaten enough.

So, making one of the stupidest decisions I’d ever made, I convinced myself I should drive home.

I got in behind the wheel, put my seatbelt on, and started the engine.

I pulled out onto Flinders, turning right onto Oxford, got into the left lane, and turned left onto Darlinghurst Road. Five minutes from home. It was too easy, and I was a good driver.

It’ll be fine.

Everything will be fine .

Except I only got as far as Green Park when someone ran out across the road. I hit the brakes, but not before I hit them.

Holy shit. I just hit someone.

Scrambling and shaking, I got out of my car to find a guy lying on the road. He had curly black hair and black jeans, a green T-shirt. He rolled onto his side and blood ran down the side of his face as he tried to push himself up.

“Holy shit,” I said. “Are you okay?” I went to him, putting my hands on him. “Stay still. I need to call an ambulance. ”

Dark and fearful eyes met mine. “No! No ambulance! No ambulance, please...”

The panic in his eyes, the fear; it frightened me. “But?—”

“No hospital. Please. Need to leave. Before they find me. Please, please.”

Then he slumped back to the road, his fist still clutching my jacket.

So, panicked, and before any onlookers could intervene, I did the second stupidest thing I could ever do.

I put him in my car and took him back to my place.