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A MAN WALKS INTO A BAR…

L éon’s chair sat right on the edge of the bar, facing the entrance.

He was the first thing any person entering the inn saw, and that got him a great deal of attention and free drinks.

And he wanted to drink a lot that night.

He wanted to drown himself.

Luckily for him, the bar was owned and operated by his oldest and dearest friend, Souveraine, and just as quickly as he’d settled into his seat, a double brandy and a bottle of red wine were plonked down in front of him.

He handed her his axe to stow beneath the counter, she gave him a sympathetic smile as accompaniment to his drinks, and no more was exchanged than that.

Neither of them needed to say anything, and she was too busy working to spend time consoling him anyway.

Execution days were Souveraine’s busiest, being that her bar was the closest one to the scaffold.

Yelling at someone about to get their head cut off makes a crowd thirsty, and therefore she was called straight back to work, leaving Léon to down his large brandy in one go before he set about pouring a glass of wine.

That was when the door opened, jangling a little bell on its way.

Léon almost smashed the side of his wineglass with the involuntary drop of both his hand and his lower lip.

The bottle fumbled to the bar, tumbling in a precarious circle and only barely righting itself just as Léon locked eyes with him .

The man in the doorway was beautiful.

He was tall and wide-shouldered, built long and strong, like a fine horseman.

His jawline was chiseled, square, with a cleft in his chin that looked just exactly made for a man’s thumb to press into, right before he kissed him.

His hair was a deep and rich brown, deliciously thick with the slightest curl by the high collar of his coat.

His riding boots came to just below his shapely knees and those thighs…

His thighs were thick and manly and tightly bound in black leather.

Léon could see every bulge of every muscle all the way up.

Every muscle. It was indecent.

Compellingly filthy.

And it took Léon far too long to drag his eyes back to the handsome face.

When he finally did, he found the man’s gaze, dark and intelligent, firmly secured on him.

The man appeared, at first, a little taken aback by the way Léon was all but licking him with his eyeballs, but that surprise lasted only a moment.

Very quickly, the fine lips drew into something of a sneer.

Something contemptuous.

But also amused. Something sexual, yet superior, and Léon was almost on the floor.

He was used to being fawned over, used to having eyes on him, but that haughty way the man’s head tilted back, that oddly cruel, judgemental aspect to his eye…

It put Léon on edge—repulsed him, deliberately, it seemed—yet it drew him in, in some stark and curious way.

The large brandy hit at that very moment, and Léon felt warmer and more pleasant than he had in days.

Had he had time to think of it, he might have blamed that for the way his gaze lingered far too long.

He blushed when he finally realised what he was doing, then forced his vision down to the wooden bar in front of him.

He wrapped his fingers around his glass and took a distracting sip.

The tread of the man’s boots fell heavy on the floor.

Slowly, they came towards him, one in front of the other, closer, then closer again.

He felt the beat of their movement in his heart, and he was desperate for one more look at those thighs.

But he stared down until he saw the black leather walk straight into his vision.

And how thick and tight the man’s thighs were.

And how fine the material that stretched over the expanse.

How good it would feel beneath the palm of his hand.

He heard Souveraine’s voice, caught a swish of her long black hair as she leaned over the counter to take the man’s order.

“Brandy,” he said.

Léon chanced a look up as he handed over the money.

He thanked her, then his head dropped to look at the small glass, but it dropped in such a way as made it clear he knew he was being watched.

And he smiled. Some kind of sly and knowing smile.

But he didn’t look over, only lifted the glass to his lips, staring off into the middle distance, while Léon watched on.

The man took a small sip, and the way his throat flexed with the movement, the way his lips drew together with the burning liquid on his tongue, held Léon like a rope around his neck.

Then, very suddenly, the man looked across, and he smiled wider, and for the first time in his entire life, Léon didn’t want to shy away from a man he was attracted to.

He wanted to stare into those eyes.

He wanted to stand up, and he wanted to ask to kiss him.

He took another sip of wine to control himself.

Yes, that was exactly what he wanted.

He wanted to kiss that man.

And he wanted to do more and more again.

He wanted that man to stay late, so late that Léon might follow him out into the street— No !

He might follow Léon…

He might follow him some way through the dead-quiet roads and laneways, then he might call him back.

He might shove him into an alleyway, might give him one nice kiss for good measure, then force him to the ground, and feed him what Léon knew must be a huge, delicious, spectacular, distinguished?—

“Bon soir,” said the man, having readjusted his gaze straight forward.

Léon, appalled and somewhat intimidated now, searched the man’s face furtively.

“B-Bon soir,” he replied softly, not entirely sure the greeting was meant for him.

He redoubled his faux fixation with the countertop.

The man turned, leaning a hip into the bar.

Léon’s eyes were drawn to his waist, which curved long and smooth like the blade of his axe.

And those thighs… He raked his eyes back up to a smile that was slanted, showed a flash of predatory white teeth, and Léon suddenly felt as though he’d had another twenty shots of Souveraine’s strong brandy on an empty stomach.

His innards squeezed so tight he thought he might vomit.

Then Souveraine’s arm dropped across his shoulder, and as he looked towards her, his cheek ran straight into her ample bosom.

“ Le Baron Noir ,” some publican was apparently saying to Léon and Souveraine, “was spotted just north of the city, two days back.” The nattering old man shook his head in the authoritative way loudmouthed drunks often do.

“I don’t know… This evil red rain, these tremors turning up on the very same day as the Black Baron? Some say he’s behind the lot of it. But it’s more likely to be the end times, if you ask me.”

Léon did not ask, and at that particular moment, he didn’t care either.

All he cared about was the distinct tap on the counter as the handsome man’s empty glass was set down.

And by the time Léon looked up, red as a newly fallen apple due to the possible implication that he was Souveraine’s lover, all he could see of the man was one last glimpse of his wide back as the little bell rang, and he walked out the door.