Chapter 30
CHAPTER 30
One week later
The bar pulsed with a gritty, unpolished energy, the kind that seeped into your clothes and clung to your skin long after you left.
Neon signs advertising long-forgotten brands of whiskey buzzed faintly while the sour tang of spilled beer mingled with the faint musk of old leather stools. The sound of low laughter rippled through the crowd, punctuated by the occasional bark of someone who had had one too many, rising above the din before it got swallowed again.
In one corner, the jukebox flickered erratically, its ancient mechanisms groaning as it churned out a gravelly Tom Petty track which struggled to make itself heard against the sharp clack of pool balls colliding in quick succession.
Ethan sat at a small, wobbly table, his chair tilted back slightly as one leg teetered on an uneven floorboard. He nursed a Budweiser in his hand, absentmindedly tracing patterns in the condensation on the bottle with his index finger.
He was restless and shifted in his seat, trying to focus on anything other than the feeling threatening to overtake him. His eyes glanced across the room, lingering on the dartboard before flicking to a small group of people sitting close by.
Across the room, Brick let out a loud groan, throwing his arms up in exaggerated exasperation as he stepped back from the dartboard.
“Fuck. Man, I don’t believe this,” he said, shaking his head and tugging at the brim of his faded ball cap. The cap had seen better days, the fabric worn from years of use, the logo barely discernible anymore. He yanked his darts out with a swift motion, holding them up as if they were to blame for his loss. “You win again, Dev. What’s that now… three in a damn row?”
Devon leaned casually against the wall, one foot propped up behind him like he didn’t have a care in the world. His lean frame gave off an air of ease, but there was something razor-sharp about his dark eyes—a predator alert even in moments of supposed relaxation.
“Hey,” he drawled, “I told you I was good at this.” A slow grin spread across his face as he twirled one dart between his fingers like a magician performing a trick.
He pushed off from the wall and clamped both hands onto Brick’s shoulders, making him stagger slightly. “Listen, you’ve bought the last two rounds, let me get this one. Can’t have you funding my drinks all night. Hell, even I’ve got some pride.”
Brick chuckled and shook his head but didn’t protest as Devon’s grip shifted into something that could only be described as purposeful, his fingers kneading into his muscles like he was testing for weak spots in armor.
“You know,” Devon continued with a sly edge to his tone, “you should come to the spa, let me give you a proper work over sometime. You’re tense as hell, knots all up in here.” His hands pressed harder for emphasis before releasing with a dramatic flourish. “A session with me and I’ll make you feel twenty years younger.” He threw back his head and laughed—a booming sound that seemed too big for such a small space. “What do you say? You gonna strip down and let me work on your body?”
Brick stilled before forcing a laugh that sounded just shy of natural. His thick brows knitted together as he tried to gauge if Devon was joking or not.
The guy ran his mouth, and it wasn’t unusual for him to push boundaries, but there was something about the way he said it this time that made Brick’s stomach clench.
He shrugged it off with a chuckle meant to diffuse whatever tension might have been brewing. “Seriously, man,” he said as he lined up his next throw, “if you can turn back time and make me twenty again? Hell yeah, I’d think about it.” He glanced over at Ethan and offered an easy grin. “Ethan said you helped put him right?”
“Oh yeah,” Devon’s grin widened as he shifted his attention across the room to where Ethan sat nursing his beer. “Yeah, he enjoyed that session for sure.” His tone took on an almost syrupy sound as he focused his gaze.
Ethan stiffened as if someone had poured ice water down his back. Heat crept up his neck despite himself, burning at the edges of his ears as he stared down at the beer bottle in front of him like it held all the answers he needed. His thumb picked at the peeling label, a nervous habit he didn’t even realize he was doing.
Devon’s smirk was back, a shadow hunting him through the neon haze, and Ethan couldn’t shake it off no matter how hard he tried.
“See,” Devon said casually as he leaned closer to Brick with another jagged laugh. “Ethan’s got a body that’s just a damn pleasure to work on. He’s younger than us old warhorses, muscles are less tense. ” He clapped Brick on the back before adding, “Hasn’t taken the punishment yours has.”
Brick glanced at Ethan, noticing how rigid he sat, but said nothing as he turned back to the dartboard once more.
“In my experience,” Devon pressed on, “he’s got one of those bodies you can’t resist putting your hands on. Muscles like dough under your fingers—soft and easy to mold, yet firm in all the right places.”
Ethan slammed his bottle down hard, the glass clinking against the tabletop. He looked away, jaw tight as he fought the flush burning his cheeks as Devon’s stare drilled into him.
That plastered on smile made his skin crawl and he scanned the bar looking at the bikers hunched over the pool table, a couple arguing by the jukebox, the bartender wiping down the sticky counter, looking for anything to avoid those eyes.
His gaze finally snagged on Logan, perched on a high stool at the bar, his broad shoulders hunched slightly forward, one boot hooked casually on the rung.
The glass of whiskey caught the dim light, the amber liquid rippling as it tilted lazily between his fingers. The sharp line of his jaw was clenched tight, and the faint shadow of stubble dusted his face, giving him an edge that Ethan could feel even across the room.
Logan had rolled into the bar about ten minutes ago, a storm cloud of brooding silence and sharp edges. He hadn’t acknowledged anyone, hadn’t spoken a word. He just sat there, staring into some middle distance over the rim of his glass like he was trying to drown whatever demons were clawing at him.
Ethan noticed the way his black tee stretched taut across his chest, every contour of muscle visible beneath the fabric. There was something magnetic about the way he moved—not how he moved exactly, but how he simply existed, as if the whole world had paused for him to take up space.
Ethan sighed, and his chest tightened as their eyes met for an instant. The jolt made his breath hitch, and without thinking, he offered a small, awkward smile, unsure but sincere. The clatter of glasses, bursts of laughter, and the steady thrum of a jukebox in the corner, faded into nothing.
Logan’s expression didn’t change. His gaze just lingered for a beat too long before he turned away.
Every time Ethan reached out, Logan pulled back. His stomach twisted painfully, the sting of rejection raw even though he should’ve been used to it by now.
“I need the head,” he muttered, sliding out of the booth. “Brick, grab me another beer when you hit the bar.”
Brick threw his darts, the thunk echoing as he cursed under his breath. “Seventy—shit, man, I’m buyin’ drinks all night at this rate.”
“Hey, let’s take a breather.” Devon kept his tone light, his eyes tracking Ethan as he headed for the bathroom. “Plenty of time. Night’s still young.”
Ethan shoved through clusters of people without looking up, their voices blurring into an unintelligible hum around him.
The bathroom door squeaked as he pushed it open, the flickering light buzzing like an angry hornet trapped in a glass.
The bathrooms were everything you’d expect from a dive bar: grimy tiles with cracks along the edges, sinks stained with rust, graffiti scrawled on the wall like some chaotic manifesto left by countless drunken strangers. A faucet dripped incessantly, a slow, rhythmic plink that only made the silence more oppressive.
Ethan braced both hands on the edge of one sink and leaned heavily against it, staring at his reflection in the mirror above. The glass was smeared with grime that distorted his features so much he almost didn’t recognize himself anymore. His face looked flushed—a combination of too much alcohol and too little sleep, he guessed. Dark shadows ringed his eyes like bruises from fighting battles no one could see.
Logan’s absence was an ache Ethan had buried deep down inside him, but it wasn’t just that eating at him tonight. It was Devon. The guy was always there, standing on the edges of things with that sly smirk and those probing remarks that wormed their way under your skin no matter how hard he tried to ignore them.
The door creaked and Ethan’s head snapped up as Devon slipped in, hands in his pockets, that fucking smirk still in place.
“Thought you might need company,” he drawled.
Ethan turned, shoulders squared and jaw set tight enough to hurt. “What?” he said with incredulity that made it clear he wasn’t in the mood for this.
Devon didn’t budge—not even an inch. If anything, he seemed more amused by Ethan’s expression than anything else. “You’re wound pretty tight tonight,” he observed casually. “What’s got you so jumpy? Don’t tell me Lockwood’s giving you the cold shoulder again?”
“You need to go.” Ethan turned on the faucet and started washing his hands.
Devon wasn’t done pushing buttons or boundaries, and instead of retreating he stepped closer. “He’s not worth it. But deep down I think you know that.” There was something sharper beneath his words now—something bitter and personal that cut through the usual smugness. “Kabul…” he muttered darkly, “ask him about it sometime.”
“Touch me again,” Ethan growled through gritted teeth, each syllable carrying the raw edge of barely contained fury. “And I’ll fucking end you.” He dried his hands on a paper towel then suddenly shoved forward, his forearm slamming against Devon’s chest with enough force to send him stumbling back a step.
For a moment, the tension threatened to explode. But Devon didn’t falter—if anything, he seemed to feed off Ethan’s mood. He let out a breathless laugh that was more taunt than humor, as if this whole situation amused him. “You’ve got fire, kid,” he said, adjusting the collar of his shirt with deliberate slowness, brushing off invisible dust as if Ethan’s threat had barely registered. “I like that in a man.”
There was no apology—no acknowledgment of the line he’d crossed or how close he’d come to pushing too far. Instead, he now shoved Ethan back, reestablishing control before stepping away entirely.
Straightening his shirt, he turned on his heel and sauntered toward the door. His movements were languid, calculated to exude an air of someone who had won whatever invisible game he believed they were playing.
“Later,” he tossed over his shoulder, the single word dripping with smug satisfaction.
The door creaked as he walked through without looking back.
Ethan stayed where he was, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts as he struggled to steady his breathing. He gripped the edge of the sink so tightly that his fingers left pale imprints on the porcelain.
He splashed cold water against his face and squeezed his eyes shut against the lingering image of Devon’s smirk that flashed before him.
Kabul. It hung in his mind like smoke from a fire he knew was burning but couldn’t see. What did he mean? Was it meant to unsettle him? Ethan’s reflection stared back from the mirror, but it wasn’t answers staring back at him, but questions.
For all his defiance, somehow Devon had still managed to get under his skin, and worse than that… maybe he’d done it on purpose.