Mike pressed the doorbell. He heard nothing. He looked up at the sign. Written in bloody Gothic lettering was “The Rack” above the door. Painted on the windows was a picture of a scantly-clad woman stretched out across across what could be a medieval torture device, a looming Grim Reaper over her with his scythe covering her nether regions.
Mike frowned. This wasn’t his style of club, full of zombie look-alikes and faux-vampires. It was probably empty right now, just turning over into dark.
The huge mahogany door opened a little ways and a dark-haired woman peered out. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Mike.” Her voice sounded like the one on the phone earlier that morning.
She smiled. “Yes, come on in.” She opened the door wider. She stood before him in a beautiful white evening gown, a long, deep slit down to her navel, exposing a huge diamond piercing in her belly button. He normally wouldn’t look that low, but the V just drew his eyes down there. He snapped his eyes back up, and the woman’s smoldering brown eyes – accented perfectly with makeup, that he normally didn’t like – hooked his for a moment. He forced himself not to look at her breasts, but could imagine them to be just as beautiful as the rest of her.
The gown went to the floor and pooled at her feet. She wore silver stillettos that peeked out from the bottom. She shut the door, and said, again with that alluring smile, “Follow me?”
“Anywhere,” he found himself muttering. He was gay, but if he would ever turn straight, he’d want to do it with this woman.
She turned around, and the back of the dress was a wider and lower V, barely touching the top of her ass. She did not wear a tramp-stamp, though he saw the tattoo of a rose on her shoulder. Crossing the rose was a sword or knife of some sort, though he couldn’t make out the details. She walked, her hips swaying seductively. Mike swallowed and fell into step behind her.
She led him into the club proper, not dark enough for Goth, but brightly lit. “Can I get you a drink while you wait?”
“Uh, sure, a Coke?”
“Of course.” She swayed to the bar, and he followed meekly, a puppy on a leash.
She went behind the bar and expertly got him a Coke as he sat down on the well-made square wooden stool. “This is a nice place.”
“We like it. The other place burned down but this one is in a much better position. We get a lot of mutants instead of just university students from next door, which is fine.”
He heard a something slide open, and turned. An archway, guarded by two evil-looking panthers with wings, had a set of stone doors underneath. A young woman in a white t-shirt and orange Daisy Dukes with black knee-high combat boots stepped out, a taller, bald man in a white wife-beater and blue jeans following close behind. He was barefoot. They both came to the bar, and the beautiful woman served up something that smelled like fruit juice.
“I want to see you ace your finals, Ashley,” said the man as he came closer. He put a hand on the middle of the girl’s back. He must have been in his late-thirties, and she looked only about seventeen.
She turned to look at the man, sheer adoration on her face, “If I do, can I have more?”
He smiled, “Of course, you can.”
Mike watched as the girl smiled, and kissed him full on the lips, and it turned into a kiss of pure passion. The man cupped her ass in those shorts, and pulled back from the kiss. “Go on and drink something. I have an appointment, dear.”
Ashley nodded and then went to the girl. “Hi, Anilia!”
Anilia smiled and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Hi, Ash. Let’s move down here so these men can talk.” But when she came near them, Mike smelled the unmistakable scent of sex on her.
“So you’re Mike.”
Mike turned immediately at the man’s voice. The man’s eyes were a deep, dark blue, the most beautiful feature of him. He had a tattoo of pairs of snakes running up and down his arms. “You’re Scott’s friend.”
“Bruce. ” He held out his hand. Mike took it – might as well be polite. “So, you think I’m fucking your boyfriend.”
The voice held a rumble underneath it, a threat of violence that was not lost on Mike. Mike made a motion with his hand, which, when he uttered the right syllable, would conjure a shield strong enough to stop a raging bull. However, before he could complete it, something held his wrist in a tight vise grip. Bruce now stood close enough so that his thigh touched Mike’s knee, and his hand was holding his wrist. No one moved that fast.
There was silence in the room. The girls had moved away from the bar toward the other side of the room, chattering closely.
“You will listen.” This time, Bruce’s voice was a lot calmer, but demanding him to pay attention. Mike nodded, and the grip was released on his wrist.
“I am not fucking your boyfriend. No one is. He comes here, has a drink, and we talk. I help him to relax.”
“Do the two of you, you know…”
“Sit around and watch porno and jerk off? No. Do I suck his cock and/or he suck mine every time he comes here? No.” He motioned to the corner where the girls sat. “If I want sex, all I have to do is ask someone that I have a mutual agreement with. You do know what that means, don’t you?”
“How much do you know?” Mike’s eyes narrowed.
“Enough to know that Scott feels sometimes like a third wheel.” The man turned his head and spoke quietly, “Do you love him?”
“Yes, yes, I do.”
“Do you love him like you love your other boyfriend?”
“I…”
The man turned back to him. Mike swallowed, and actually started to sweat under that gaze. “A simple yes or no.”
“No,” Mike blurted out.
Bruce nodded, looking back out at the dance floor. Mike’s hand shakily took his Coke, and he drained it. Bruce said, “I’m not your counselor, and I certainly don’t want to be.” He looked to Mike. “Scott wants to help you, but he can’t help you if you don’t tell him what your problem is.”
“I don’t even know. Well, I do, but I don’t understand it.”
Bruce said, “That’s none of my fucking business. My fucking business is that you really hurt Scott with that accusation. You should go down on your knees and thank whatever God or Devil you worship that you have a man like Scott as a lover. He loves you, and he respects you, and I respect your relationship, though I really don’t respect you.”
Mike glared at Bruce.
Bruce glared at Mike.
Mike looked away. Something behind those eyes said that Bruce was an even colder bastard than Mike ever was, and that even if Mike cast some sort of spell right here – or later – that this man was going to make him pay for it, and pay severely. He’d never been so scared of another person before.
“Do we have an understanding, Mike?”
“We – we do.”
“Good. Now get the fuck outta my club.”
Mike quickly slid off the barstool, not even bothering to pay for the soda. He barely kept himself from bolting out the door.
Words 1256
Written all at once. Thanks Calliope.