Chapter 13 #2
“Do we need to go and get you dried off?” He turns his head towards the loos.
Ha—I am almost tempted to allow him to guide me there, but until the person who is out to destroy me is safely behind bars, there’s no sense in drawing unnecessary attention.
Chase Woodrow and I going hand in hand into the GENTS’ would definitely start a rumour or three.
“I reckon I can manage to sponge myself off.”
“I’ll take care of this for you, shall I?
” he offers, palming what remains of my drink.
I’ve no doubt it’ll have disappeared by the time I return, if I return.
The benefits of hiding out in the club toilets for the night are becoming more apparent by the second.
Kira’s almost close enough to reach out and catch me when I flee past Chase to the men’s room.
There’s a constant scrum of people in and out of the rest area.
Too many preening prima donnas in attendance for the mirrors not to be in high demand.
I make a show of cleaning up with a wad of paper towels, but the club is so inferno hot, there’s barely a damp mark left by the time I actually catch a glimpse of myself in a decent sized mirror.
I’m going to have to face Kira at some point and talk to her. However, now isn’t the right moment. That conversation needs to be had in private, not bellowed so that we can be heard over the loud music, or conducted in sign language that anyone can eavesdrop upon.
Of course, it occurs to me as I stand here trying to blend in and not look as if I’m hiding, that Kira might actually follow me in here. A male stick figure on the door didn’t stop her on the night of the gala dinner, so it’s unlikely to hold her off now.
So, contingency plans—I need them. Step one; lock myself in the nearest empty cubicle.
Step two; refuse to come out or say a word, and hope she gets bored and gives up.
Step three; find an alternative exit. That’d be just dandy, if there was such a thing, but there’s not even a window in this underground cavern.
There is a cleaner’s cupboard though. It’s an option, if by some miracle it’s not locked.
What my sadly lacklustre plan doesn’t include is a clause for what to do if someone else I’d rather not talk to turns up.
Adam Bask’s face lights up when he spots me loitering in the toilets.
I watch in horror as joy spreads across his face, until he’s sporting a grin so wide and salacious he’s in danger of eating himself.
He makes me an open offer, right then and there from the other side of the room with numerous people watching.
Let’s fuck. Right now. It’s what you’re here for, and it’s what I’m offering.
Only, he’s erroneous in that assumption. I’m hiding, not cruising for company.
I don’t want to deal with his shit right now, so I pretend he’s not blatantly propositioning me and tumble through the exit instead.
What the hell am I doing, stumbling from pillar to post like the devil’s about to bite my arse? That’s not something I should be afraid of. It’s not like he hasn’t already taken many a painful bite.
Still, it’s okay. I can handle Adam and his machinations. They’re nothing I haven’t managed before. Kira though, she’s a whole other board game, and she’s waiting for me right outside the door as I return to the brickwork cellar bar.
She’s waiting, and she’s drop dead gorgeous in her cold, bristly fury.
God, I’m an idiot, imagining for a second that I’d managed to purge myself of all the X-rated thoughts I’ve entertained about her.
The truth is all I’ve accomplished over the last few weeks is to tune out the insidious longing she inspires.
There’s no ignoring them now. They’re baying through megaphones.
This woman just isn’t like any other woman.
She speaks to me on some primal level, to the caveman in me.
That Neanderthal doesn’t give a shit about modern concepts such as orientations and gender preferences.
It just accepts she’s hot, and the best outcome imaginable is one where I get to fuck her from every conceivable angle.
Cue instant hard-on burgeoning in my pants.
I’m so frozen from coming face to face with Kira that I forget about Adam until his breath whispers against the edge of my jaw. He’s right behind me, an unyielding presence against my back. “Name the place.”
Only Adam could interpret me turning tail as a sign of encouragement.
Kira’s shoulders pull back sharply. I think she heard his words, and drew a reasonable conclusion.
The frostiness of her expression increases tenfold, and transforms her into a sort of ethereal witch I can imagine shagging in a snowstorm.
Not that she’s going to let me anywhere near her ever again.
The only intimacy I’m likely to receive from Kira Carter-Wells is an almighty slap that leaves my ears ringing and my cheek scarlet.
It’s no more than I deserve.
She’s patient though, and controlled, which means she doesn’t just storm forward and do it. Thus, I’m trapped between her and Adam.
Anything I want to say to Kira, I refuse to say with Adam breathing down my neck. And turning my back on her to knee Adam in the balls will cause unnecessary drama. I require a third option, which is right when I notice Ronnie eyeing the two stick-figure marked doors as if they’re a logic problem.
Ronnie’s my friend.
Ronnie will save me.
Kira’s pissed off, but she’s not going to muscle in on a conversation I’m having with a legitimate guest, not while her boss is watching. Adam, on the other hand, won’t be put off by a chat. That man is oblivious to hints, subtle or otherwise. Therefore, something more intimate is necessary.
It’s hard to say of the four of us who’s most shocked when I lurch sideways and grab Ronnie. Adam grumbles, Kira’s jaw hits the floor, and Ronnie…dear God, Ronnie… I’m pretty certain that if we weren’t such old friends I’d have been kicked in the bollocks by now with a severely pointy-tipped shoe.
I’m shoring up extra trouble for myself as I snog Ron as if we’re desperate for one another, yet, miraculously, my plan sort of works.
Leastways, it gets me away from the two people I need to avoid, as Ronnie rears back, only to then grab me by the lapels and march me over to one of the private booths towards the back of the club, where I’m shoved unceremoniously onto the leather banquette.
Ronnie stares down at me from the lofty spikes of a pair of killer heels and points a finger at me.
I swear my bollocks instantly climb back inside my abdomen, to inhabit whichever space they were in before they dropped.
“What the ever loving fuck was that about?”
It’s a relief the music is so loud, so blessedly no one will have caught that question besides me.
“Jeezus motherfucking Christ, Dylan, at no point ever has there been or will there be an acceptable reason for you to stick your tongue in my mouth. You know how I feel about…about…”
Apparently there aren’t words evocative enough to express the requisite degree of loathing. Ron turns an impressive shade of puce, which prompts me to raise my arm before my face, in anticipation of blows raining down.
It doesn’t come to that, and after a few seconds I’m daring enough to lower my defensive shield, whereupon I get to witness a dramatic spitting, gagging routine, with a finale that involves tongue scouring motions.
Okay, I screwed up. Again. I ought to know better. I do know better. “I’m really sorry, Ronnie. That was dickish of me.”
“You are a dick. A great big fucking enormous one, and if it wasn’t for the fact I’ve been violated enough already and I’m going to have to scourge, I’d beat you black and blue.”
Shit! “I really am a slug of a human being.”
Ronnie stills, and one elegantly painted brow arches upward. I squirm with the uneasy feeling that my whole history is being read right off my skin, but then Ron blinks and I can breathe again. “Don’t ever do it again, D.”
“I won’t,” I swear, hand on heart. “Honestly, I wasn’t thinking. I know how you fe—”
“It’s done. We’ll say no more about it.”
“I wasn’t thinking.”
“Yes, well, you’re constantly so pre-occupied with your prick that it’s no wonder you can never think straight.”
Thinking straight is a large part of the problem.
“I’m super sorry.”
Ronnie makes a waspish harrumph, then settles on the opposite side of the C-shaped banquette from me. “I said it’s done.”
Yeah, except when is anything ever done and forgotten?
I close my eyes, and dig the heels of my hands into the lids, trying to ground myself in the resulting darkness.
I shouldn’t have got Ronnie involved with this.
I should have been a man, told Adam to pee off and gone outside or something with Kira and let her vent her fury.
I’m no expert on women, but no one appreciates being used.
At the very least she deserves to know what is going on inside my dumb head, and that she is most definitely not the problem.
I just don’t know that I’m ready to face the world and confess to being something other than what they imagine me to be.
Or hell, what I imagined myself to be. If I like men and women in a proportion of about a million to one, does that still make me something other than purely gay?
My guts tell me it does, possibly.
I don’t like it.
I’m not bi. That isn’t me.
I’m Dylan Drake. I’ve openly identified as gay since I was eleven.
Shit!
I uncover my eyes to find Ronnie gazing contemplatively at me, dark brows drawn down tight, and skinny fingers holding on to the cuffs of both sleeves.
“Do you think labels matter?” I ask. If anyone has a worthwhile opinion on the subject, it’ll be Ronnie. After all, Ronnie is frequently referred to as they, like Ron’s more than one person, not a singular entity with multiple facets.
“In what way?”
“In any way.”
“Well, labels help us group ourselves, so we know which tribes we belong in.”
“Is that a good thing?”
Narrow shoulders are raised and dropped again. “Providing they’re not the be all and end all. We shouldn’t allow them to define us. And we should always remember that being one thing doesn’t preclude us from being another.”
“Hm.” I scratch my cheek, uncertain if that answer really helps.
“Think of it this way. You’re Dylan because someone named you that, and I’m Ronnie for the same reason, but neither of us change or cease to exist if we decide to become Clive or Marty, or if we have no name at all.
The being or entity that we are remains the same regardless of the label we’re assigned. ”
It makes sense, but isn’t necessarily helpful.
“What I’m saying, Dylan, is that labels only really matter to other people as a means of quantifying things. They’re shortcuts. Boxes we can file one another in so that we don’t have to dedicate so much brain power to our interactions.”
“I guess.”
“I think what’s more important here is why you’re asking?”
We’re straying dangerously close to matters I don’t want to discuss, but Ronnie’s not going to let me wriggle off without some sort of answer. I heave out a sigh. “I’m not sure the ones I’ve been assigned are correct.”
Ronnie blinks, and then doubles over with laughter. “So! Who gives a flying fuck, D? A good third of the population only attribute you to one group. The all-fags-must-die group. You’re not telling me you’re losing sleep over them? Seriously, darling, they’re not worth your time.”
A swift swish of my head dispels that notion.
It’s not the haters who concern me. It’s my supposed tribe I’m concerned about.
All the people who think we’re on a team together, and who are going to be butt hurt and outraged when they find out we’re different.
That I’m not like them at all, that I am in fact a different sort of other.
Dammit! I miss the tranquillity and simplicity of life at the cottage, and not having to deal with this shit.
I miss the raspy stubble I’d been sporting until tonight as I scratch my jawline.
“Dylan?” Ronnie bum shuffles along the banquette until we’re side by side. “Something’s eating you. Best cough it up. You know secrets aren’t half so heavy when they’re shared.”
I close my eyes again, trying to ground myself, but there are no answers in the darkness. Ronnie and I are good friends. We’ve known one another a long time, but I don’t feel able to open up and splurge it all like I might with Lorne.
“Dylan, you latched onto me like I was your only means of salvation, the least you can do is make a clean breast of why you considered it necessary to snog my chops off.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Well, duh! Something to do with Bask?”
Only in the vaguest of vaguest senses.
“The girl.”
Ronnie’s eyes gain a sort of inner luminosity. “Are you telling me you’ve been branching out?”
Yeah, not confirming or denying that.
“Fucking, or still looking?”
I shake my head, and rise. “I’m really sorry, Ronnie. It wasn’t my intention to muck up your evening.”
“You didn’t. Tiger, sit your arse down, this chat isn’t over yet, and the threads of it are way too intriguing for me to cut you loose.”
Ronnie pats the seat, but I’m not feeling overly compliant.
In all likelihood I’ve indirectly said too much already, and it’s not as if I have ready answers to any questions Ronnie’s likely to ask.
Answering the ones I’m posing myself is difficult enough.
Fact is I’m enamoured by a person, and it’s highly inconvenient that she doesn’t have a dick.
If she did, then this would all be terribly simple.
As things stand, they’re not really about cocks or tits or pussies.
It’s Kira as a whole, as an entity who’s got under my skin and infected me.
I actually want to talk to her as much as I don’t.
“Dylan, fuck what the world thinks. Love whichever way works best for you. You don’t owe anybody anything, and God knows you’re overdue a bit of happiness.”
I don’t know that being with Kira is any guarantee of that.
Maybe the initial spark will fizzle out, and I’ll realise that the hunt for Mr. Right is still on.
Maybe I’ve already hosed any chance of us being a thing by acting like a dunce.
There’s only one way to find out, and what I have realised through being here—failing to divulge any details to Ronnie—is that I actually need a resolution.
I’m going to talk to her, and suggest we find somewhere quiet. Inside one of these booths would do. It’s not so loud here. We wouldn’t have to sit too close, or shout.
“Can you hold this booth for me, and keep it free of people?” I ask Ronnie. “I’ll be back shortly.”
“Darling, that won’t be a problem.”