10. Harley
Harley
The second club is louder than Scoundrels and somehow darker too, all deep red lighting and heavy bass that rattles through the floor hard enough to vibrate up my legs.
The second I step inside, heat wraps around me again.
Sweat, alcohol, bodies pressed together too tightly.
Familiar. Anonymous. Safe in the strange way crowds sometimes feel safer than empty rooms.
Nobody can corner you easily in a packed club.
At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
I stop just inside the entrance and glance back toward the door. For one brief irrational second, panic spikes because I don’t immediately see him. Then the crowd shifts and there he is, limping slightly as he moves through the doorway behind me.
My eyes lock automatically onto the black eyepatch crossing the left side of his face, then lower toward the subtle hitch in his movements. He’s trying hard to hide the limp, but I notice anyway. Tall bastard probably thinks nobody’s paying attention.
I am.
Way too much.
And now that I can see him properly, the attraction slamming through me makes even less sense than before.
He’s huge.
Not bodybuilder huge, but broad everywhere.
Broad chest. Broad shoulders. Thick thighs under faded jeans.
The kind of body that looks built for violence and protection in equal measure.
Brown hair brushes his shoulders in slightly messy waves, and there’s enough scruff along his jaw to make my fingers itch with the bizarre urge to touch it.
His visible eye catches mine.
Brown.
Warm brown, somehow softer than the rest of him.
My pulse stutters.
Jesus Christ.
I turn away fast before my face can do something humiliating like reveal interest.
“What kinda place is this?” he asks when he reaches me.
His voice is rougher up close. Deep enough that I feel it in my chest.
I shrug one shoulder. “A club.”
“Very informative.”
Despite myself, I almost smile.
That startles me badly enough I immediately scowl instead.
“No one asked you to follow me.”
“You literally pointed and ran.”
“Details.”
The corner of his mouth twitches.
That tiny almost-smile does something deeply unfortunate to my insides. I turn and head farther into the club before he can notice. The crowd parts around him easier than it does around me, probably because he looks like the kind of man people instinctively avoid bumping into.
He looks solid and capable. My body keeps reacting to that word lately. Capable. Safe. Strong enough to stop bad things from happening.
The dance floor opens up ahead of us beneath flashing lights.
Men grind together everywhere, arms wrapped around necks and waists, mouths close enough to promise things.
Usually this kind of atmosphere works on me fast. Usually I can lose myself in the noise and movement until thinking becomes optional.
Tonight all I’m aware of is the man behind me.
I can feel him somehow even without looking. Every time somebody brushes against me, my attention flicks instantly back toward where he’s walking. Like part of me is tracking him automatically.
I lead us toward the far side of the room where small tables line a raised platform overlooking the dance floor. Most are occupied, but one tiny round table near the railing sits empty except for two abandoned glasses somebody hasn’t cleared yet.
“Sit,” I tell him.
He arches one brow, a smirk on his arresting, strong face.
The expression should annoy me but instead I get another sharp pulse of heat straight to my groin.
God, what is wrong with me tonight?
Still, he lowers himself carefully into the chair across from mine. The movement is controlled enough that I instantly know the limp hurts more than he’s admitting.
Without thinking, I ask, “Your leg bad?”
The question surprises both of us.
I can tell because he blinks once before answering.
“It’s getting better.”
Not really an answer.
I stare harder. “That means yes.”
Something flickers across his face then, like he’s surprise that I noticed at all.
Most people probably don’t look closely at him. Not beyond the eyepatch. The patch grabs attention first, because it’s obvious enough that the smaller signs disappear behind it.
I understand that better than I want to.
People stopped really looking at me after Joshua too. They see blond hair and tight clothes and think they know exactly what I am. Nobody notices the way my hands shake sometimes or how I position myself near exits automatically now.
The silence between us stretches strangely. It’s not awkward though, which I’m strangely grateful for. But there’s a heavy, charged atmosphere between us that has my breath hitching when I look at him.
The waitress arrives before either of us can say anything else. She’s pretty in a sharp-edged way, black lipstick and dark curls piled messily on top of her head. Her eyes move between us with immediate interest.
“What can I get you boys?”
“Whiskey,” I say instantly.
“Beer,” he says at the same time.
The waitress grins. “One self-destructive order and one sensible one. Got it.”
I snort before I can stop myself.
The sound surprises me enough that I clamp my mouth shut immediately afterward.
The big man across from me smiles properly this time.
And wow.
That is unfairly attractive.
Warmth transforms his entire face, softening the harder lines around his mouth and eyes until something in my chest pulls painfully tight. He looks younger when he smiles. Less intimidating.
I look away first because this man is dangerous. Very dangerous to me.
“So,” he says after the waitress leaves, leaning one forearm against the table. “Do neighbors normally chase each other through clubs around here, or are you just making a special effort?”
My face heats instantly.
“I wasn’t chasing you.”
“Sure.”
“I wasn’t.”
He studies me for one long second before nodding solemnly. “Right. You aggressively power-walked after me with unrelated intentions.”
I glare at him.
He keeps smiling.
Asshole.
The weird thing is, I can’t tell if he’s flirting or just naturally like this. Relaxed. Teasing. Easy with people. The kind of man who probably talks strangers into bed without trying.
The thought sparks jealousy so abruptly I almost choke on air. I don’t even know his damn name.
What the hell?
The waitress returns with our drinks before I can spiral too hard about that. I grab the whiskey immediately and take a large swallow. Burn floods down my throat and settles warm in my stomach.
The man watches me over the rim of his beer bottle.
“You okay?”
The question lands harder than it should.
Nobody asks me that anymore unless they want something from me afterward.
And even then, not with genuine concern.
I shrug. “Fine.”
“Bullshit.”
The word isn’t cruel.
That somehow makes it worse.
I tighten my grip on the glass. “You always this nosy?”
“Only when somebody looks like they’re trying to crawl out of their own skin.”
My breath catches.
I should leave.
That thought flashes through me sharply enough to make my pulse jump. This is dangerous in an entirely different way from random hook-ups or drunken mistakes. This man sees too much already, and I’ve only just met him.
But when I look back at him, he’s watching me with open concern and banked heat tangled together in his expression, and the invisible thread inside me tightens again.
The music pounds around us while people dance and drink and laugh below the platform. The whole club moves in flashes of red light and shifting bodies, but somehow the tiny space around our table feels strangely separate from the rest of it.
For a second the rest of the club blurs at the edges.
He’s still watching me, not in the lazy predatory way half the men tonight have watched me, but with something heavier in his expression.
Caution maybe. Heat too, because I am not imagining the way his gaze tracks over me and then yanks itself back up like he’s trying to be honorable and failing in interesting little increments.
Tall, broad, not too bulky, with short brown hair, an eyepatch, and a scar I only noticed properly once we were under different lighting—he should not be my type.
Or maybe he is exactly my type and I just never knew it because men like him don’t usually look twice at men like me unless they want something quick, dirty, and forgettable.
For the first time in weeks, my body isn’t just reacting in panic or revulsion or some drunken need to be less alone.
I want. Fully, painfully, stupidly. I want to feel another man against me, over me, in me.
I want Val’s weight pinning me down and his mouth against my skin.
I want him splitting me open over and over as he fucks me, and the thought should send me running straight out the door because I haven’t been able to even consider that without my head trying to tear itself apart.
Instead, my cock pulses behind my zipper and my palms go damp around nothing.
Talking doesn’t seem nearly as important anymore, which is unfortunate since this entire detour was supposedly about figuring out who Val is, why he was at Scoundrels, and whether he is dangerous in a serial-killer kind of way or just dangerous in the way any man becomes dangerous when I want him too badly.
That is why I skipped the diner, though my plan has already backfired.
What used to be Darlin’ Dick’s a few months ago is clearly not a gay club anymore.
The crowd is mixed, the energy different, the lingering looks not as freely queer, and there will definitely be no taking Val into a bathroom or backroom for a blow job without risking both our necks, maybe quite literally.
I don’t need to be tossed out of two clubs in one night, and I sure as hell don’t need the cops showing up again when I’m this close to unraveling completely.