5. Chapter Five
Chapter Five
S loan had rolled up the sleeves of his button-down upon approach, and he regretted not wearing something other than business casual.
Rogue’s Tavern was not, in fact, a geek chic spot dedicated to the X-Men character or a D&D bar. Instead, it looked like a punk bar, where he’d stick out like a sore thumb. Maybe he should turn around and go the other way, but his brain kept cycling back to the other night with Ezra. Nothing he hadn’t done before—a quick fuck in an alley to vent off steam—but the stupidest detail lingered.
Ezra taking off his shirt for Sloan to kneel on.
That sort of Dom was one of the keepers, and he’d been in the scene long enough to know how rare they were. He might’ve just started talking to Kai yesterday, but he tested the waters there, not sure if Kai would bolt again .
Ezra, on the other hand, was a sure thing.
Sloan stepped up to the red door of the bar and walked inside. The sound hit him at once, loud punk music he couldn’t identify. He was more of a jazz or acoustic kind of guy. However, the vibe fit Ezra, so the choice didn’t shock him.
The place was small, with night-black walls, blaring red seats, and scrawled white lettering all over the walls, along with music posters. At the far end, a stage was set up, a tiny ass one with weathered floorboards that would barely fit a band, and the space around the rest of it was just as cramped. However, the vibe was more relaxed than he would’ve expected. A handful of tattooed punks chilled around the bar.
Ezra sat in the back, at one of the black vinyl booth seats.
Sloan’s mouth dried at the sight of him. His dark hair was slicked back, and the whole leather vest, white shirt underneath thing worked for him. When Ezra locked and loaded on him, the intense heat in his eyes glided right through him. Fuck, that look was heady. Something magnetic about the man had lured him in from the start, and that potency rushed at him full force now. This place felt like Ezra’s natural element, a little thrill-seeking, a little rough around the edges, and excitement sparked through Sloan’s veins.
He proceeded forward as if he was spellbound.
Sloan slipped into the seat opposite him, even though he was tempted to lean in and claim his lips. The man had been a damn good kisser, and he craved more.
“I might’ve picked the place, but if you’d rather go elsewhere, I’m open too.” Ezra nodded to Sloan’s button-down. Right. Totally a sore thumb here.
“Look, I may not know the vibe, but I’d like to get to know it better.” Sloan gave a pointed look. While he’d been skating on light and easy with dates, he couldn’t help his curiosity. Even if once upon a time, it had led to his downfall.
Ezra’s eyes crinkled with a sexy grin. “Let me grab you a beer, then. What do you like?”
“Not beer, if I’m being honest. Fruity drink or hard liquor is usually a win.” Sloan settled in his seat. Even though he leaned back, a part of him still remained on the alert. He missed the days when he’d been young and tumbled into places carefree. Before he’d missed a million red flags and saddled himself to the worst sort of guy.
“Well then, I’ll ask the bartender what they recommend.” Ezra pushed up from his seat. “You look fucking delicious tonight.”
A thrill raced through Sloan. As much as he loved to be fucked and passed around and used something fierce, he also appreciated a guy who could wield praise equally. He wanted to be a good boy, a fucktoy, a needy little slut on his knees.
He wanted to play with Ezra more, but he also wanted to get to know him better, and that was a rarity.
After his last long-term boyfriend, he’d been keeping anyone new at a distance—at least emotionally.
Ezra leaned over the counter, his ass popping out, and damn, the man was ridiculously hot. The ease of his movements, how he slung his arm across the back of the bar seat like he owned it as he ordered them drinks—everything about Ezra was sexy as hell.
The bartender wasn’t overtaxed given the few people hanging around this dive, so the guy had the beer poured and a second later whipped up some red-colored concoction. Ezra snagged the drinks and paid, then returned to Sloan. Sloan’s heart thumped hard at having him in his proximity again.
Ezra put a drink in front of him. “God Save the Queen—some raspberry drink. ”
“I’m guessing the name’s on purpose?” Sloan arched a brow.
“Sex Pistols song.” Ezra sent him a wicked grin. “You really don’t know the first thing about punk, do you?”
“Is that a deal-breaker?” Sloan circled the rim of his drink with his fingertip.
Ezra snorted. “Hardly. As long as folks don’t try to shit on my interests, I don’t give a fuck if ours don’t align.”
“Mine are geeky—Magic the Gathering, spreadsheets, and nature documentaries.”
“You’re a fucking enigma, you know that?” Ezra tipped his beer back. “First glance, you’re this sexy, tight-laced accountant, and no one would know what a needy boy is hiding behind that calm exterior.”
A shiver ran down Sloan’s spine. That summed him up far too well.
His interests and hobbies might be tame, but his cravings sure as fuck weren’t.
“And what are you, besides a punk, bad boy, and a Dom?” Sloan asked. Whenever he met someone who sparked this level of interest, an almost giddiness came with the territory, like effervescent bubbles floated up through him. Potential was addictive as fuck, but chasing that had also been his downfall with Rick. Afterward, he’d never trusted his intuition again.
All those childhood dreams of finding some deep connection with a partner and creating a home with them? Completely tossed into a garbage can and set on fire.
“EMT.” Ezra leaned back in his seat and spread his legs. Everything about his casual claiming of his environment turned Sloan on. “Not in some noble way, but when you’re used to the sights, you get kind of numb to it all.”
Sloan let out a low whistle. “So you’re chasing danger. ”
Ezra’s gaze turned a bit darker. Then his expression smoothed out. “Nothing else makes you feel alive.”
Sloan’s chest squeezed tight. Those words came across light, but the hint of darkness told a different story. “Do you have any boring hobbies, or is that just reserved for me?”
“Cooking, I guess? Growing up, I ate microwave meals or whatever I could scrape together, and even that was a fight. My shithead brother used to hoard the good shit, and Mom and Dad could barely afford enough for three meals a day. So when I moved out and got my first decent paycheck, I started experimenting with food—spices, recipes, whatever. And I never stopped.”
Sloan’s heart thudded hard. That was unexpected. He was used to superficial connections with most, despite letting Nolan in and, more recently, Eva. Pixie’s new girlfriend had the sort of chill that had him confessing things he’d planned on taking to the grave. And even though the crew at Whipped was family to him, they only knew the slightest bit about his ex.
“So, planning on cooking for me on date two?” Sloan asked. He loved flirting, and Ezra’s responses lured him in effortlessly.
Like now, he shook his head with a grin, those long lashes on display. “If you want me to cook for you, I’d be happy to. But chances are, my apartment’s not going to be the most romantic setting. I’ve got a shitty place in Oakland, perks of my industrious EMT wages.”
“I don’t need a fancy apartment to get down and dirty, though I’d also be fine with you coming over and cooking. I’d pretend I could cook well, but most of my meals end up bland.” He took a sip of his drink, savoring the sweetness on his tongue. Ezra was a deliciousness he wanted to lose himself in tonight, not only by learning every little thing about the man but also by getting fucked senseless by him .
Ezra’s pocket buzzed, and he fished out his phone. “Fucking Rick.” Ezra let out a hiss. “My brother.”
Sloan’s spine stiffened, and the butterflies evacuated. Plenty of Ricks lived in San Francisco. Just because Ezra mentioned a name he hated didn’t mean they were connected. Yet the unrest in his stomach wouldn’t relax, and he wasn’t sure if it was a response to the past or the future. His whole body thrummed.
He wouldn’t survive this date without clarifying. Hopefully, Ezra didn’t think he was too insane.
“What’s your last name?” he asked, the churning in his stomach not ceasing in the slightest. He hid his hands out of view so Ezra wouldn’t see them shake.
“Mitchell,” Ezra responded, his thick brows drawing together. “Why?”
No.
No, it couldn’t fucking be.
Rick didn’t have a brother. The only sibling he’d ever mentioned was a sister—oh. Oh fuck.
Sloan’s blood turned to ice.
“Your brother is Rick Mitchell,” Sloan said, his voice coming out reedy, thin.
Ezra’s lips pressed in a firm line, but he nodded. “Yeah, do you know him?”
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Sloan was rising from his seat before his mind could catch up. He needed to get the hell out of here and fast. His whole body trembled, as if he’d been drained of blood. He rubbed at his wrist, which had gotten fractured after the last incursion with that asshole. The sudden throb wasn’t real. He knew that, but hell .
“What’s going on, Sloan?” Ezra got up too, those dark eyes filled with concern.
Sloan managed to open his mouth, and by some miracle, he pushed words out. “I know him. I…I can’t do this, Ezra.”
His extremities had turned to ice, but he forced himself forward, all but bolting out of the punk bar. The brisk chill of San Francisco’s breezes greeted him the second he emerged, but even the cold didn’t snap him out of the panic. He walked down the street two blocks, his soles clapping against the pavement in an angry staccato. Shit, he was going the wrong way. His phone buzzed, but he didn’t want to answer in case it was Ezra.
Fuck.
He’d escaped.
He’d summoned the courage to break up with Rick, who had been so consumed with whatever dangerous shit he’d been getting up to that he hadn’t bothered to chase him. And Sloan had found refuge at Whipped, and he was safe there. Safe, safe, safe.
Except he hadn’t been.
Rick’s fucking brother had been right there. And he’d almost gone down that spiral for the second time. He’d barely pulled himself out of the relationship with Rick. He couldn’t survive—no, not again. Never again. Dread filtered through him, a poison he’d never quite left behind.
He braced himself against the nearest wall, his whole body sagging into it as he brought his phone up. The screen was shaky. Wait, no, that was his hands. He sucked in a sharp breath, hating the sting at his eyes. Fucking hell.
He needed to get out of there, but he didn’t trust himself to take public home.
He hit the Send button on a number he’d dialed a million times .
“Hello?” Nolan asked. “What’s up, Sloan?”
“You around?” he asked, his voice barely audible.
“Where are you at?”
“Mission District.” He flicked his gaze up to the sign of the storefront behind him. “Mission Clean: Laundromat.”
“You caught me leaving Whipped. I’ll be there in five.” Nolan ended the call.
Sloan tipped his head against the bricked wall, which was cool against his back. His mind fuzzed over, his body reduced to the misfiring signals of run, run, run. Yet he already had. Right out of the bar, out of the date, out of Ezra’s life. If he never saw Rick again in this lifetime, it’d be too soon.
Rick had been texting him.
Bile rose in Sloan’s throat. That small separation between him and the man who’d made his life hell. The downward slide had started so innocuously, just comments, little digs, and outbursts that stacked. The physical hadn’t come until later. His chest spasmed as if someone stood on it.
His eyes stung. Fuck, he couldn’t fucking cry. Not here, in the middle of the street.
Would Ezra come after him? Was he still sitting in the punk bar, confused as to what the fuck had happened? Shit, this whole night had started so well, and now…
A wave of cold washed over him, and his knees trembled. He needed to get home. Or at least anywhere that wasn’t here. A hot tear trickled down his cheek.
“Sloan,” a voice called from the street.
Nolan’s blue Subaru drove up to the side of the road, and Nolan was half hanging out the window. “Hop on in.” Nolan still had his Whipped tee on, and his green hair was pulled back in a practical bun, which meant he probably had come from work.
A few stray tears still coursed along his cheeks, and he swiped them away, then pushed off from the wall. How had five minutes passed? It felt like he’d called Nolan seconds ago. He slid into the passenger seat and sagged against the back. It was familiar, comfortable, safe. And more than anything, he needed any reassurance he could grip onto.
“So, is this an ask-no-questions pickup or a please-let-me-vent one?” Nolan asked.
Relief cascaded through Sloan. Nolan’s question was exactly what he needed. “Ask no questions.” The words came out steadier than expected, so he chanced more. “If you’ve got time tonight, I wouldn’t mind some company.”
“Want to get milkshakes? I’ve had a craving for a mint chocolate chip one all day.”
The ridiculousness of the statement, the absolute triviality, was too much, and a laugh bubbled up in his throat. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Nolan’s soft grin. His chest squeezed tight. Fuck, he loved his friends. So goddamned much.
“Make mine vanilla.” Sloan settled into the seat as Nolan zipped off.
“You’re anything but, sweetie,” Noles said with a tease.
“Thanks.” The word echoed through the car, dragging things heavier. But he was no longer Rick adjacent. He was no longer sitting across a table from Rick’s brother.
No, he was zooming down the streets of San Francisco with one of his best friends, and he was safe.
Safe. Something he hadn’t realized he’d taken for granted until it had been ripped away.
Nolan flashed him a quick grin. “Always.”