Chapter 10 Dorian
“Stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten in secret is pleasant.”
— Proverbs 9:17 KJV
Dorian pulled into the cracked driveway and killed the engine. Arthur’s rust-flecked truck sat there like a bad omen. He exhaled through his teeth. Weekly Friday brunch with his mom was supposed to be the one island of calm in his week, and now this. He couldn’t dodge the man forever—Lauren would never divorce him, Catholic rules and all—but Dorian had hoped for a little more time before the next round.
He climbed the steps. Lauren was on the porch swing, nose in a paperback, sunlight catching the silver threads in her dark hair. She looked up and smiled, crow’s feet deepening, dimples flashing. For a second Dorian saw himself in her face, only softer. She patted the cushion beside her.
He sat, testing the old chains with his weight. They creaked but held.
“How have you been, baby?”
“Surviving.” He shrugged. “Work’s been nonstop.”
“I always hated night shifts,” she said, marking her page with a receipt. “You get that from your dad. He was a night owl too.”
Dorian let the silence settle. His father had died before he could form a single memory of the man—just stories, half-told, and a workplace accident no one liked to name. Lauren rarely brought him up unless something heavy sat on her chest.
He studied her face. Something was off; her smile didn’t reach her eyes.
“Mom.” He took her hand. His throat tightened. “If something’s wrong—if you’re sick—”
“No, honey, nothing like that.” She squeezed back. “I’m healthy as ever. Stop scaring yourself.”
“Then what is it?” Dread crawled up his spine. “You mentioned Dad. And Arthur’s truck is here.”
She rubbed slow circles over his knuckles. “Since your fight, Arthur and I have been talking. Real talking. Hard talking.”
Dorian swallowed a scoff.
“And he wants to apologize to you.”
His jaw actually dropped. Lauren patted his hand once more, stood, and disappeared inside with a quiet, “I’ll start breakfast. You two talk.”
Dorian leaned back against the swing, stomach knotting. An apology. From Arthur. The same man who’d spent years making him feel small, wrong, unwanted. No chance in hell.
“Hey,” Arthur said from the doorway, voice rough as gravel.
Dorian didn’t look over. Just glared at the yard.
Arthur lowered himself into the faded rocking chair. “You’ve got every right to be pissed.”
“I know I do.” Dorian’s words came out flat.
“Can we have a civil conversation?”
Dorian laughed, sharp and bitter. “Civil? After everything you said to me last time?”
“Please.” Arthur’s voice cracked. “I can’t take your mom being mad at me anymore. She won’t even sleep in our bed.”
Dorian turned then. Arthur looked smaller somehow, eyes red-rimmed, shoulders slumped.
“So this is about you,” Dorian said. “Not me. You’re scared of losing her, so now you want to say sorry and make it all tidy.”
“No—yes—I don’t know.” Arthur rubbed his face. “I know I fucked up. For years. I know that.”
“You think a couple words fix it?” Dorian’s voice rose. “You think ‘sorry’ erases making me feel like a stranger in my own house? Telling me I was a disappointment every chance you got? Dragging me to Sunday School so I could learn how disgusting I was for liking boys?” He stood, chest heaving. “You don’t get absolution from me, Arthur. You don’t deserve it.”
“I know,” Arthur said quietly. “I know I don’t.”
Dorian was already moving, down the steps, toward his car. His eyes stung worse than he’d admit. He didn’t look back.
The hollow feeling followed him all the way to work.
He threw himself behind the bar like it could outrun the ache. Flirted harder than usual, let cheap cologne and crude promises drown out Arthur’s voice. It didn’t work. The emptiness clung.
He caught himself wondering if Revived Faith stayed open late, if Callahan might be there alone among the pews, candlelight warming his face. The thought lodged under his ribs like a hook.
A whistle cut through the noise. Dorian glanced down the bar. A man crooked a finger at him.
Dorian finished the draft in his hand and walked over.
The guy could’ve been Callahan’s rougher brother—same salt-and-pepper hair, same strong jaw, but shoulders and arms that filled out his shirt in ways Callahan’s lean frame never tried to. Dorian’s pulse kicked.
“Well, look at you,” the man said, grin slow. “Aren’t you pretty.”
Dorian leaned on the bar, letting his eyes drag down and back up. “What can I get you, sir?”
“Whatever lands you in my bed tonight.”
Dorian smirked. “I’ve got just the thing.”
He turned, put extra sway in his hips, bent a little farther than necessary reaching for the peach schnapps. He mixed the drink slow, tasting the straw while holding the man’s gaze, tongue sliding up the plastic before he sucked the sample in. The man’s eyes darkened.
Dorian sauntered back. “Sex in the Driveway,” he said, sliding the blue cocktail over. “Extra hard.”
The man licked his lips. “Perfect.”
Bianca breezed past behind him and smacked Dorian’s ass. “Somebody’s getting laid.”
Heat flared in Dorian’s cheeks. “Bianca.”
The man—Sam, he’d learn later—chuckled. “Don’t get in trouble on my account. Hate to see you spanked again.”
Dorian’s mouth ran ahead of his brain. “What if I like it?”
Sam’s grin sharpened. “Then I’ll put you over my knee myself.”
The words shot straight to Dorian’s cock. Three days of forced abstinence had him wired tight; the resemblance to Callahan made it worse. Dangerous. He pictured Callahan’s hands instead of this stranger’s, pictured that low priest-voice saying good boy again.
Bianca flicked her rag at him. “Dorian, stop trying to fuck the customers. Floor needs you.”
Sam leaned closer. “I’ll be waiting.”
Dorian grabbed a notepad and plunged into the crowd. The bar was packed, bodies everywhere, pool cues jabbing the air. He wove through, apologizing, taking orders.
Hands caught his waist from behind.
“Couldn’t wait,” Sam murmured against his ear. “You look too good out here.”
Dorian’s breath hitched. “I look better bent over.”
“I bet you fucking do.” Hot breath on his neck. “Bathroom. Two minutes.”
Sam disappeared into the crowd.
Dorian should have laughed it off. Should have remembered the rule—no touching himself, sure, but this wasn’t that. This was someone else. This was fine.
He followed anyway.
The door hadn’t fully shut before Sam had him pinned to the wall, mouth hard and demanding. Dorian groaned, fingers threading silver hair, hips rolling forward. Sam’s thigh slid between his legs, pressing up. Heat exploded low in Dorian’s belly.
“Needy little thing,” Sam growled against his jaw.
“You have no idea,” Dorian panted.
Sam’s hands gripped tight, mouth moving to Dorian’s neck, sucking hard. Teeth scraped skin.
Pain flared sharp.
“Ow—shit.” Dorian shoved at Sam’s chest. “Dude.”
Sam pulled back, breathing hard. “Too much?”
Dorian twisted to the mirror. A red, angry mark bloomed just above his collar. Panic spiked. Sunday was two days away. Callahan would see.
“This was a mistake,” he muttered.
Sam reached for him again. Dorian dodged.
“I’ve gotta get back to work.”
“Already?” Sam’s hand went to his pocket instead. “Number, at least?”
Dorian forced a flirty smile, typed in a fake string of digits, and slipped out.
He made it three steps before crashing hard into someone.
He stepped back, apology rising—then froze.
The words died in his throat.