Chapter 5 ~ Minho
I made a mistake coming here
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Four hours later, I am standing outside what can only be described as your typical frat house, questioning every decision I made.
I should have gone home, crawled into my bed, put on my headphones and pretended the last few hours didn't happen. But my annotated copy of Our Dark Deceptions is in the hands of a sadist, and every single word I wrote in the margins is not an embarrassing confession he can read, and I can’t breathe until I have it back.
It took a while, but I finally got Nyla to give me the address where Bellamy is living with some of the other hockey players.
And what pisses me off is that everyone below the age of thirty in this God-forsaken town seems to know where the “hockey house” is.
It looks like a creepy, haunted Victorian mansion with ivy growing along the bricks. This has Dad written all over it.
I can hear the music from all the way across the street, and the number of people crowding the lawn should be a safety hazard. Someone is already drunk enough to fall into a hedge, utterly hacking his guts out.
Gross.
It isn’t even ten o’clock yet, but the air smells of cheap beer as I cross the street against my better judgment.
I adjust my jacket and am about to head inside when I see the door is open, not cracked, not even ajar—fully open, propped with a cinderblock, I guess to let fresh air in, and no one is remotely trying to guard it.
Have none of these idiots seen a horror movie? I look down and see a bucket full of car keys and raise a brow. Guess not, and honestly? It doesn’t matter because I’m not here to party or socialise; I wasn’t even here voluntarily.
I was here because Bellamy stole my book, and I want it back. And what are the chances he even started reading it?
Golden light spills out onto the porch along with reverberating music so heavy and loud I can feel it in my teeth.
Bodies move past me and go inside, where silhouettes grind against each other in the living room, and more people are drinking and sitting on the couch.
I poke my head inside and hear laughter and shouting fill the space, along with what sounds like a beer pong cup hitting the floor, where people are surrounding a pool table.
My brain is screaming at me to turn around, to walk away, even text Bellamy tomorrow like a normal person and simply ask for my book and never set foot in this den of testosterone and what I am sure will be terrible decisions I wouldn’t want to wake up to tomorrow.
But my feet keep moving.
I step through the doorway and into a suffocating box of heat and overbearing noise.
The living room is more packed than I realised—guys in hockey jerseys, girls in tops that sparkle under the cheap string lights, bodies pressed together in a rhythm that has nothing to do with the music and everything to do with what most of these people will be doing behind closed doors later.
Someone shouts as I pass, something I don't catch, and I just keep my head down and move.
“Yo, you lost?”
I wish I were in this moment.
A hand lands on my shoulder, fingers dig in hard enough to stop me. I turn to find a guy built like some Greek god, tall, muscular enough to crush my face with his bare hands, red-faced with beer sloshing from the cup in his other hand.
“I’m looking for Bellamy.” My voice comes out more even and steadier than I thought it would when I feel like the opposite of those things.
The guy's lips spread into a mischievous grin, and I have a gut-sinking feeling about this. “Last I saw him, he went to the basement to get more beers; just don’t interrupt him too long cause I think he might be busy.” He laughs at his own stupid joke and disappears into the crowd.
Okay then.
It takes me a while to find the door that leads to the basement, but as soon as I do, the stairs creak under my weight with each step I take.
All the noise from upstairs fades into a dull throb, replaced by something else—a low, wet rhythm that makes my stomach turn even before my eyes adjust to the dim light.
A single bulb hangs from the ceiling, casting a sickly-looking yellow light over a makeshift party space. There’s a foam cooler against the wall, a stained couch, and there, in the corner, half hidden by the shadow of the stairs—Bellamy.
Everything in me stops as I stand there frozen like a caught rabbit trapped in a net.
He’s leaning against the wall, head thrown back, throat exposed like he is offering it up to something, and I see a bit of the tattoo that runs along the side of his neck.
His hands are buried in someone's hair—a guy I don't recognise, on his knees in front of Bellamy, working his mouth along my step-brother’s cock with an enthusiasm that makes me a little dizzy.
Holy shit.
I can’t believe what I am witnessing.
There is a guy, on his knees, giving Bellamy Maddox a blow job. My brain is officially and utterly scrambled. I can never unsee this image. There isn’t enough hot sauce in the world that could burn this scene out of my mind.
I should have left.
I could have turned around the second my foot hit the first step, but my body stopped listening to me somewhere between the front door and this moment. And now it is rooted to the floor while my brain miserably tries to catch up.
When did he start liking guys?
Is this one of those straight guy crises where he pretends not to be gay while enjoying getting head from another guy?
Fucking typical.
I’m about to turn when Bellamy’s voice comes out low and rough, the same voice that had asked me if I was always mouthy with customers or just him, which isn’t a thing—I’m not mouthy. But now Bellamy is saying different words that have me wanting to go deaf.
“Yeah, just like that...fuck, your mouth is good at that.” His hips roll forward once; it’s a small, controlled moment, and the guy on his knees makes a sound that is half moan, half whimper.
I can’t fucking look away. I am both petrified and at a loss for words; it’s not even funny how speechless I am.
The guy's head moves in a rhythm that is practised, like he’s done this a hundred times before, and maybe he has.
His hands are braced on Bellamy’s thighs, his fingers digging into the denim, and he is making so many sounds that crawl under my skin and light a fire I don't want to ever acknowledge after this.
I just won't.
My mouth goes dry as I try to swallow, my hands are shaking, and it’s not from how cold it is down here. And then I feel it, a slow curling heat in my gut that has nothing to do with the basement's temperature either.
My body is responding in ways I don’t want it to, but I can’t stop it from doing it, and the shame of it burns through me like acid.
I am hard.
Fuck.
The realisation hits like a slap to the face.
I’m hard, and it's undeniable how my cock is thickening against the seam of my jeans in a way I can’t hide or explain away.
I press my thighs together, trying to will it away, but the sound, the wet, rhythmic sound that guy’s making working Bellamy’s dick only makes it worse.
The devil himself’s head is still thrown back, the tendons in his neck standing out, his jaw slack. He isn’t even looking at the guy, but rather at the ceiling, eyes half closed and lips parted. And then he speaks again.
“Fuck—yeah, I’m so close... right there, don’t stop, take my cock like a good little slut.
” His voice is low and utterly wrecked. “You’re so fucking good, oh my God—such a good fucking boy for me.
” The mix between degradation and praise makes my stomach clench, and I am still wondering why I am not leaving.
The guy whimpers in response, and Bellamy’s hand tightens in his dark brown hair, guiding him to take his cock in deeper and gag.
I should seriously leave. Every instinct in my body is screaming at me to move, to turn around, pretend I haven’t seen this. But my feet are nailed to the floor, and the uncomfortable ache between my legs is a steady, throbbing reminder I can’t ignore or pretend isn’t there.
Bellamy’s eyes open and land on me.
Shit.
Even with how dimly lit the basement is, he finds me in the dark like he’d known I’ve been here all along, like he’d been waiting for me to show up. His gaze locks onto mine, and I swear the world stops.
There is no surprise on his face, no anger or disgust. Just a slow, heavy recognition that settles into something I can’t read—amusement maybe or something darker. Bellamy’s mouth curves upward, and he doesn’t look away, doesn’t stop the guy whose mouth he is fucking either.
He holds my gaze captive as the guy keeps working, as his breath hitches and his hips twitch. My tormentor watches me watch him, and that heat in my gut turns into something unbearable—a cocktail of disgust and longing and a desperate, shameful need to be the one on my knees.
Fuck, no.
Why did my mind go there? I should not be thinking of my step-brother fucking my—nope, I am not going there, not today, not ever.
I open my mouth, but no words come out, so I close it. Bellamy’s eyebrows lift in question and challenge as he mouths, “Come join me.”
I shake my head hesitantly.
He smiles and gestures a finger for me to come closer, but I don’t as he mouths a little too loudly, “I won’t bite, but I will have my fun with you.”
The guy on his knees moans in response as if Bellamy’s words are for him, and that is what snaps me out of my hypnotised state.
Fucking devil.
I turn around and leave before this gets even weirder. The worst part is that I hear Bellamy’s laughter as I storm back upstairs in a rush, push through the crowd until I am outside, and do not stop until I make it to my car.
I made a mistake coming here.