Chapter Two The Drugs Don’t Work #2
Trent kicked off his boots and ran a hand through his sweat crusted curls. “Yeah, like you’d survive a night without me pulling you out of whatever disaster you fall into.”
Dev laughed and tossed him a pouch of some pre-mixed cocktail from the fridge that would taste vaguely tropical and entirely artificial.
“Fair point. Now go wash off the tragic hero routine and put something worth looking at on. You’re not dragging me down with those sad eyes tonight.
” He leant on the counter, smug grin firmly in place.
“Had a blinder of a shift at the hotel. Some flash bloke in a tailored suit. Proper money, Trent. Gave me his number and a tip fat enough to cover my weekend. Penthouse guest, of course. Told me to ‘call him if I wanted to see the view.’” Dev smirked, tossing back a sip of his drink.
“Bet his view’s got Egyptian cotton sheets and a minibar bigger than my self-control. ”
Trent rolled his eyes, the familiar cynicism settling low in his chest. “Away on business, was he? ”
Dev smirked, entirely unbothered. “The customer’s always right. And he can be right in me when he bends me over the chaise longue.”
Trent snorted, raking a hand through his curls as he turned towards his room, Dev’s unapologetic laughter following him down the hall.
That was Dev through and through. Shameless, wickedly charming, and impossible to embarrass.
His best friend, housemate, and the only person who’d stuck around long enough to really understand how Trent’s life had veered off course before it even had a chance to start properly.
They’d met at school. The only two gays in the year had meant they’d become inseparable since.
Gone travelling together during a gap year too.
Until Trent had to cut it off early and come home.
Dev came with him. Helped him through all of that.
Even gave him the spare room in the flat he’d been bought by the dad he never saw once Jamie had settled into his place.
And from there, he’d helped him through the paramedic science degree, by being there when the days got too heavy and the nights too long.
Now Dev always made sure there was something cheap and sugary in the fridge and a distraction loud enough to drown out the worst of it.
It wasn’t perfect. But it was home .
And for Trent, that was more than enough.
He hit the shower hard and fast, letting the scalding water chase away the memory of the day.
The smoke, the burn victims, Reece’s voice still hanging in his ears.
By the time he emerged, scrunching gel through his curls, Dev was already dressed to kill in a crisp white shirt setting off his skin tone perfectly, sleeves rolled to his elbows, collar open.
“Go with the black shirt.” Dev eyed Trent like a stylist with a personal stake in the outcome. “Brooding works for you. Makes you look like you’ve got tragic love stories and a respectable body count.”
“Just the body count.” Trent padded into his room, dried off and climbed into his boxers and tight jeans, then tugged the black button-down off its hanger to wander back out to the kitchen.
“Speaking of body counts…” Dev tilted his head towards the whiteboard, where the morbidly cheerful ‘Trent’s Death Tally’ stood in thick black marker. “Any fresh entries for the leaderboard?”
Trent buttoned up his shirt, not quite meeting Dev’s eye. “None today.”
“Thank God . I haven’t got the emotional energy for another tragic toast tonight. We’re nearly out of rum, and frankly, I’m saving the last of it for when I finally die of disappointment.”
Trent smirked despite himself, shaking his head. “You’re a terrible human being.”
“Yeah, but I’m your terrible human being.” Dev grabbed his keys and phone. “Taxi’s on the way. Drink up or you’ll be playing catch-up all night.”
Trent downed his drink, then legged it out of the flat to the waiting taxi, Dev squealing as the threatened downpour hit them.
“Pub or straight to emotional self-destruction?” Dev teased as they scrambled into the back seat.
“Straight to it, please.”
“To the Lighthouse , my good sir!” Dev called to the driver.
The Lighthouse with its flickering neon sign glowing like a beacon through the mist, was perched right on the seafront where the old, converted dock warehouse stood proud over the crash of unseen waves beyond.
Its facade was all cracked brick and exposed steel, softened by the steady pulse of bass that seemed to vibrate through the pavement.
And as the taxi pulled up to it, Trent got out to inhale the scent of salt and cheap perfume, mingling with vapour smoke and the electric promise of bad decisions waiting to be made.
Rory, sporting blue hair today courtesy of the salon he worked at along with a full face of make-up fit for a catwalk, was already out front, draped over the rusted railings like temptation in a glitter-streaked package.
His mesh crop top was short enough to tease smooth pale skin dusted with shimmer, and he clutched a vape between his fingers, the glowing tip bobbing with each animated flick of his wrist.
“There you are!” Rory threw his arms wide like a glitter-soaked messiah. “Took you long enough! I’m sweating my tits off out here!”
He air-kissed them both with an exaggerated pout.
Dev clapped him hard on the back. “Don’t worry, babes. Niko’ll slip something cool down your throat.”
Rory let out a scandalised gasp, hand clasping his fake pearls. “I hope you mean his drinks.”
“Why?” Dev hummed. “What else would you like Niko to slide down your throat?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“She doth protest too much.” Dev winked at Trent, throwing his arms around them both and steering them towards the pulsing lights of the club.
The bass slammed into Trent’s chest the second he crossed the threshold.
The Lighthouse was chaos and comfort all at once with flickering neon signs half-lost in the fog of a smoke machine, bodies moving like a single living organism under the pulse of coloured lights.
All heat and sweat and want. Exactly what he needed.
Noise loud enough to drown out the echoes.
Lights bright enough to blur the memories.
And maybe, if he worked hard at it, a drink strong enough to burn away the taste of Reece Morgan on his tongue.
Dev was already leading the charge to the bar, his grin as wicked as his intentions, cutting a straight path through the crush of bodies like a man on a mission to forget.
Niko, as always, was behind the bar. Manager, head bartender, unofficial therapist. When the nights got too heavy, Niko didn’t only pour drinks, he also made sure everyone was safe while doing it.
But with Rory?
Yeah… that was a whole different energy.
Less big brother, more daddy, whether either of them wanted to admit it.
And if they ever got over that ridiculous just friends boundary they kept pretending was enough?
Well, everyone knew they’d be perfect together.
Problem was, neither of them seemed brave enough to find out if perfect was even something they wanted.
And wasn’t that the story of all their lives?
“Round of shots!” Dev slapped the bar as if he was calling in a royal decree. “And none of that weak stuff. Top shelf or don’t bother, Nik!”
Niko turned from where he was polishing a glass, arching a single, unimpressed brow.
He had the sort of quiet, commanding presence that made people instinctively lower their voices when he entered a room.
His sharp features softened only by the faintest stubble across a firm jaw, and his slicked back dark hair somehow survived even the sweatiest, most chaotic nights behind the bar.
Tonight, he wore his usual fitted black polo shirt with the Lighthouse logo stitched on the chest and showed off forearms etched with bold, intricate tattoos.
Some script in Hungarian that none of them could read, and sharp, abstract lines that felt like pieces of a story they’d never quite unravel.
A faint smirk pulled at his mouth as he leant an elbow on the bar.
“You planning to remember tonight?” he asked, his voice low and velvet-smooth, carrying that distinctive Hungarian lilt, “or wake up hating yourselves?”
Rory draped over Trent’s shoulder, purring into his ear. “Who wants to remember anything, darling? We’re here to sin, not reminisce.”
Niko shook his head and reached for the good bottles, anyway. But before he poured, he turned a steely glare on Rory.
“Behave yourself tonight, angyalom , ” he passed over a shot. “Don’t drink yourself stupid and end up in the wrong bed again.”
Rory’s pout was instant and scandalised, glitter-dusted fingers fluttering dramatically. “Whose is the right bed?” he teased, but even as he said it, his cheeks flushed, and he ducked his head a little too late to hide it.
Niko tore his eyes away to hand over the rest of the drinks. “One day, I’ll charge you lot for the therapy.”
“And you’d be a rich man,” Trent muttered under his breath, already bracing for the burn of whatever regret they were about to line up.
Rory tutted. “Trent, darling, if you don’t loosen up soon, I’m staging an intervention. And by intervention, I mean throwing you at the first semi-decent man who looks your way.”
Trent rolled his eyes but didn’t resist when Niko pushed another shot across the bar, his dark gaze lingering on him a moment too long.
“Bad shift?” Niko tilted his head, those ever-dark thick eyebrows drawing in .
Trent exhaled. “The fire at the flats.”
Niko’s jaw tightened as he poured. “Fires everywhere lately. Businesses told to be vigilant…” His eyes darkened. “But we all know the truth. Arson, not accidents. Someone’s lighting up this town, and no one’s putting them out.”
Rory rolled his eyes, then slung an arm over Trent. “ Someone’s putting them out though, eh, Trent? Someone Trent burns hotter than fire for.”
Trent left that unanswered.