Page 1 of Forever Finn

1

Ishouldn’t be here…

The thought pounds in my head in short staccato bursts, keeping time with the primal beat of the music. The bass vibrates through the floor, up through my legs, until it's pounding in my chest. Neon lights and strobes illuminate the dark and sexy atmosphere. My gaze flickers across the packed dance floor. It's alive, a writhing mass of bodies pressed against each other trying to get as close as possible, generating so much heat the air feels heavy and damp.

I grip the shot glass tighter, lifting it to my lips and throwing it back in one go, the fiery liquid burning down to my gut. I’ve tasted thousand-dollar bottles of Champagne and fifty-year-old single malts that went down as smooth as silk, but whatever this shit is, it’s like fruit flavoured paint stripper, and I’m pretty sure it’s just taken off the surface layer of my oesophagus and is burning a hole in my stomach, but I don’t care. What I want is something to get me drunk as quickly as possible. I crave the numbness.

I shouldn’t be here…

I see all the couples pairing off in dark corners, or the more exhibitionist ones blatantly shoving hands under skirts or down skinny jeans and shorts. My dick throbs in my jeans as I stare at a sexy twink in shorts so tight he’s probably going to need a surgeon to remove them from his luscious arse. His impossibly long, smooth legs end in platform heels and are wrapped around a huge bear. Their tongues tangle wildly as they devour each other with a single-minded intensity.

I shouldn’t be here…

My dick aches painfully, but it’s eclipsed by the wave of longing in my chest so strong I almost grind the heel of my hand to it. I signal the bartender and point to my empty glass, lining it up alongside the other four I’ve already emptied.

“Same again?” he yells above the music, and I nod.

I should be worried someone will recognise me, but frankly, I’m at the point where I don’t give a shit. I’m pretty sure this is rock bottom, or burnout… It can’t be a midlife crisis, I’m at least a decade off that, unless I don’t plan on living that long in which case, this absolutely could be classed as a mid-life crisis.

It doesn’t matter what label I use, the fact is, I’ve just nuked my entire career. I was a Hollywood A-lister, a one hundred percent box office gold, bankable, bona fide star. At least that’s what the media would have you believe.

The truth is, I’m a thirty something washed up actor with the beginnings of a drinking problem, a box full of shiny, useless awards, a fat bank account, a closet full of skeletons, a hidden sexuality, and so much emotional baggage it practically comes with its own postcode.

I scrub my hand over my face and pick up the glass the bartender set in front of me with a warm smile and a flirty wink. I toss back the contents with all the class and finesse of Oliver Reed and wipe my mouth on the back of my hand.

I spend all my days surrounded by people tripping over themselves in sycophantic attempts to ingratiate themselves into my life, and yet I’m so fucking lonely.

I walked out on my whole life, my condo in Malibu, my agent, my manager, my fake girlfriend, and if that wasn’t bad enough, I walked off set a week into shooting my latest movie.

Why did I do it? Fucked if I know. Now I’m back in Cornwall, of all places, the one place I never thought I’d come back to. I’ve worked so hard to bury the confused, messed up kid I’d been, to remake myself into the Hollywood poster child for a successful action hero. The jobs just keep rolling in, along with the dollars and awards. It’s a dream, so why aren’t I happy?

I frown hard, scratching at the itchy stubble along my jaw. My hair is just the wrong side of too long, making it slightly shaggy and unkempt. Maybe no one will recognise me, I hope. They’re used to seeing a clean cut, well presented, firmly muscled heterosexual action star, and I played the part to perfection. I embraced the box they’d shoved me into because it was safe.

No one ever bothered to look beneath the surface, and to be honest, I’m not even sure what they would’ve found if they had. I existed in a world of toxic masculinity. Don’t cry, don’t show weakness, don’t feel. To anyone on the outside of my goldfish bowl, I had the perfect life, the perfect career… the perfect girl.

But I’m a fraud. How would people react if they knew big tough action hero and ladies’ man Finn Gallagher was desperate for a big hard cock fucking him into the mattress. That he wanted to be overwhelmed, held down, mastered with a throbbing dick wrecking his hole, stretching him wide.

Jesus, I want to be owned in the most base and primal way. Is that really so wrong? Am I really so aberrant?

I close my eyes and draw in a shaky breath. I’m so tired of being me. My face is everywhere, but it’s not me. Why can’t they see it’s not me?

I open my eyes and scan the room. It was so stupid coming here, to a queer bar, of all places. If I’d wanted to get shitfaced and whine ungratefully about my perfect life, I should have just gone to a regular bar. Coming here is a massive risk. All it takes is for one person to recognise me and post it to social media, and my career will implode faster than I can snap my fingers.

But there’s a tiny spark igniting inside me, an exciting flicker of rebellion coiling in my stomach… a tiny petty part of me that wants to get caught. At least then it would be over, and I could just deal with the fallout, but another part of me just can’t do that to Sky. She doesn’t deserve the shit storm that would rain down on her if the truth about me and our relationship comes out.

With a sigh, I push away from the bar, standing slowly, but as I turn, my eyes meet an intense and heated gaze, staring at me from the other side of the bar. My mouth is instantly dry, and my stomach rolls over lazily, like a dog waiting to be petted.

My eyes trail down his body in a slow and thorough perusal. He’s built like a fucking Viking. He’s tall… fuck… maybe even taller than me and believe me, that doesn’t happen often. Six-five, at least judging by the people milling around him.

His dirty blonde hair glows in the neon light like a debauched halo tied up in a sexy topknot, and he has a beard. His eyes are locked on mine as he lifts his pint glass and swallows slowly. My gaze trails down his throat, to the open v of his t-shirt, following the lines of his wide shoulders, heavily muscled biceps, and chest to the narrow waist. His t-shirt is partially tucked into his faded jeans, revealing a worn silver belt buckle, but I’m too far away to see what it is.

Fuck me, he looks like he could snap me in half. My eyes drift back up to meet his, noting the sexy curve of his mouth as it quirks up at my very obvious perusal of him. It surprises me when I feel my cheeks heat. I’ve never blushed in my entire life. I didn’t think my epidermis could look artfully bashful, but my face feels like it’s on fire as he gives me just as thorough an appraisal.

Oh my god, are we on the same page here?

I may be a raging closet case, but over the years I’ve managed a few anonymous hook ups, accompanied by some very stringent NDAs, but my partner of choice has always ended up being some sexy little twink. Not that I wasn’t attracted to the guys I fucked around with, but I guess there was always this expectation. I’m a big guy, tall, ripped. Most people would look at me and assume I was a top.

Fear has always prevented me from asking for what I really want. I'm not sure anyone would want me that way. After all, I’m not exactly delicate, but the guy built like a young, sexy version of Odin is practically stripping me with his eyes.