Page 30

Rowan knows all those things and more. He knows that Mal hums along to classic rock songs when he’s in a good mood. He knows that he’s Southie through and through—and proud of it—even though he lives in the Back Bay now. He knows that he likes pretty lace panties and that his eyes glimmer in the sunlight like diamonds.

Rowan wants to see Mal’s face. Needs to see his face. Because this is… well, intense doesn’t quite capture it. He needs to know that Mal is enjoying himself. He’s used to hearing his groans muffled through a gag, even, but the sounds he’s making are shy of actual pain. And he’s pulling away from every impact, squirming in his restraints in a way that Rowan can’t place but that looks different from his normal squirming.

“Has this little bitch made you soft, Malcolm?”

Mal’s full name is poison on the man’s tongue. Rowan can only imagine what it would be like to hear him call him Mal . Rowan has no idea what he ever saw in this guy.

“No, Sir.” His voice is garbled through the gag, the words barely intelligible.

“I think he has. You used to be so good for me. Now you’re distracted. Weak .”

Rowan’s fingers dig into the armrests, angry half-moons scratched into the soft leather. He bites back the response on the tip of his tongue, saliva and the bitter taste of unplaced anger flooding his mouth. Mal’s the strongest fucking person that Rowan knows.

“Or is this all just because your new toy’s here, watching?”

Rowan can’t understand Mal’s reply, quiet and jumbled as it is.

Smack! Smack! Smack!

An ugly knot of jealousy coils itself in Rowan’s belly, threatening to rise up and burst out of his chest. Mal finally raises his head again to meet Rowan’s gaze, eyes brimming with wetness. The cloth gag digging into the corners of his mouth is damp with spit and snot, and Mal’s lips twitch as he looks pleadingly toward Rowan.

Something’s not right. This isn’t a look he’s seen from Mal before, no matter how deep in it he’s been. He’s made him cry before, but it didn’t look like this. Then his features were relaxed, body loose and moaning freely. Now he looks tense, on the verge of quivering. Rowan sits up straighter, nerves tingling, ready to intervene. And then he sees what Mal’s been mouthing through the gag.

Red.

He’s calling to him.

He’s safewording , but no sound is coming from his mouth except muffled whimpers.

Smack! Smack!

Each spank is like a gunshot, sharp and punctuated.

But then, finally audible—

“R-red. Red !”

And Steven doesn’t stop. Definitely hears the word from right next to Mal if Rowan could hear it across the room. Another hard spank echoes in the room, this one a shotgun blast that makes Rowan’s blood run cold.

“Hey,” Rowan hears himself say. Too quiet at first, then as Mal calls out again, louder, firmer, angrier , “Hey!”

Steven’s only response is a gritted, “Shut the fuck up, he’s mine ,” as he raises his hand again.

In an instant, Rowan’s across the room, and before he knows what’s happening, his fist is flying. All at once, he hears the satisfying crack ! of the man’s nose and the thump ! as his knees give out and he crumples to the floor.

Steven makes a garbled noise of pain from below, but Rowan’s entire focus is on Mal. He kneels down in front of him, locking eyes with him as he quickly unties the knot from the gag and flings it to the floor.

“Okay?” Rowan asks, frantic, cradling Mal’s head between his hands.

Mal nods jerkily, a tear spilling over and rolling down his cheek before disappearing under Rowan’s thumb. He swipes it away, rubbing Mal’s cheek softly.

Rowan frantically unclasps Mal’s wrists as he leans toward Steven and growls, “I’m no bitch, asshole. And Mal doesn’t belong to anyone.”

Steven only groans in response, hands clasped over his nose as blood gushes around his fingers.

With Mal fully released, Rowan scoops up his clothes from the floor in one hand and takes Mal’s arm with the other, guiding him out of the room and down the hall.

He opens the door to one of the recovery rooms, Mal silent at his side but swaying gently. Rowan’s never been in this room before. They’ve never needed it, thankfully. He guides Mal to the queen-size bed he sees off to the side—an actual bed with clean white sheets and a puffy duvet—and gets him settled on it, clothes placed by the headboard.

He doesn’t want to leave Mal alone in this state, but he also doesn’t want Steven to fuck off and disappear before he faces any consequences for his actions.

“You okay for a minute?”

Mal nods, mumbles a “Yeah,” and Rowan’s out the door.

Rowan’s eyes are wild as he races down the three flights of stairs to Clover’s office. Pounds his fist on the door twice and flings it open without even waiting for an answer.

Clover’s typing something on her computer, but she snaps her head up at Rowan’s impromptu entry.

“Just punched some fucking asshole in the Green Room. Steven? He ignored Mal’s safeword.”

“Holy shit ,” Clover says, standing abruptly. “Do I need to call an ambulance or the police? For him or for Mal?”

“I don’t think so. I’m going to check on Mal again. The guy’s nose is definitely broken, but he’ll live as long as he doesn’t cross my path again.”

She rushes out of her office, walkie-talkie in hand. “Enrico, fourth floor, Green Room, code yellow.”

The crackle of the walkie fizzles out as Clover leads Rowan back up the stairs to the fourth floor, taking the steps two at a time before heading straight to the Green Room, the security guard she’d paged reaching the room right before her.

Rowan doesn’t go in with her, leaving her to deal with the asshole herself. Instead he rushes back to the recovery room to check on Mal. When he spots him, he’s kneeling on the bed, motionless save for the slow side-to-side movements of his head and the steady rise and fall of his bare chest.

“Hey,” Rowan says quietly, closing and locking the door.

He watches as Mal’s gold eyes blink open, pupils shrinking the tiniest amount as they adjust to the dim, warm lights.

“Hey.”

Rowan climbs onto the bed beside him, noting that he’s pulled on his briefs but nothing else, and takes in the room for the first time. It’s nice. Pleasantly warm, a stark contrast to the cool chill of the normal playrooms. Soft cream-colored walls with dim yellow lights. Two plush couches off to one side, tasteful beige furniture covers lining the cushions and armrests. Lush plants in each corner with a small bubbling water feature on the side wall and a fully stocked supply table with the usual items plus a large basket of all types of medical supplies. Rowan thinks that Mal’s case is more mental than physical, but it’s nice to have the supplies here just in case.

“Never realized how fuckin’ shit he was,” Mal grumbles, settling down cross-legged on the bed.

Rowan envelops him in a tight hug and feels Mal melt into it, face buried into Rowan’s shoulder.

“I’m so sorry that happened, Mal. But I’m proud of you for stopping it when you did.”

They pull apart, Rowan keeping contact with Mal’s upper arm. For both of them.

“We used to have people watch us all the time,” he says, voice a little distant, eyes cast off to the side. “Was wicked hot back then, but now….”

“Now it felt wrong.”

“Yeah.”

Mal meets Rowan’s eyes for a moment, the contact lingering and intimate in the dim light.

“D’you want to lie down?”

The deep breath that Mal heaves out could go either way, but he tilts to the side and falls down onto the bed, jostling the mattress under Rowan slightly. For too long Rowan stares at Mal sprawled on the bed, having wanted to get him in an actual bed for so long that he feels guilty for enjoying the sight under the circumstances. But he looks fucking beautiful outlined in white, stark black tattoos painting a lovely contrast. Rowan swallows down his desire and lies down at Mal’s side, turned to face him.

As he watches his profile and the steady rise and fall of his chest, the soothing sounds of the bubbling water feature help to steady his heart rate, still thundering away from the chaos of the past ten minutes. Tentatively Rowan brings a hand to Mal’s cheek, stroking at the soft hairs behind his ear. They lay in silence for an unknown amount of time, Rowan’s thumb starting to ache from the repetitive motion.

“Wanna talk about it?” he asks, breaking the near silence.

“No.” Mal places a hand over Rowan’s, stilling his movements. “Not right now.”

Rowan takes that as a sign that Mal will want to talk eventually. And he’ll listen when he does. For now he can be here for him.

Mal sighs. Rolls onto his side. Tentatively rests his head against Rowan’s shoulder with one arm slung across his stomach. His breath catches in his throat, heart rate quadrupling underneath Mal’s cheek. Part of him hopes Mal can’t tell. Part of him hopes he can.

As much as he’s longed for this, Rowan can’t shake the feeling that the position is only because Mal is in such a vulnerable place right now. Nevertheless he wraps an arm around Mal’s shoulder and strokes his skin delicately, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his chest. His skin is warm, and Rowan allows himself to sigh into the contact.

Mal breathes softly.

The water fountain bubbles.

Everything is still and comfortable, and Rowan knows that they’re like this because of a serious situation, but he wants so badly to enjoy the moment that he nearly lets himself forget. He lets himself imagine that they’ve woken up together, made love in the early morning light, and are enjoying the aftermath together. Not huddled together in a recovery room at a BDSM club after Mal’s been practically violated.

Eventually, Mal stirs. He lets out a tiny mewl that Rowan wants to bottle up and save for a rainy day.

“Okay?” Rowan asks quietly, barely more than a whisper.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

When Mal lifts his head, Rowan instantly misses the contact. Goose bumps pebble up along his arms as Mal swings his legs off the bed and sits upright.

Mal reaches for his clothes, pulls on his shirt first, movements slow and methodical. Hair mussed and shirt lines etched onto his face where his head was pressed against Rowan’s shoulder.

“Do you want to get something to eat?” Rowan asks as Mal finishes getting dressed.

“Not tonight. Just wanna get home.”

They stand facing one another, Mal’s eyes flitting everywhere but Rowan’s.

“Okay. You good to drive?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

There’s a beat of silence that stretches on for an eternity. Rowan wants to hug him, but he hesitates. Despite their near cuddling moments ago, he’s not sure if the touch would be welcome or met with trepidation. Instead he settles on trailing a hand down Mal’s arm, stopping and squeezing his palm in what he hopes is a comforting and reassuring gesture.

“Text me when you get there.”

Mal’s hand flexes when Rowan lets go. Finally Mal meets Rowan’s eyes, his so golden brown and so beautiful even in the dim light.

“I will.”

A LITTLE over twenty minutes later, as Rowan is pulling up to his apartment complex, he finds a text message from Mal.

[MS] home

[RC] Ok good

[RC] Call or text me if you need anything ok?

[MS] i will

This time Rowan believes him.

He collapses into bed, utterly exhausted and mind a hazy mess of thoughts and emotions. His body feels heavy and useless—a sack of flour left at the bottom of the pantry and slowly leaking out through a pinprick hole. It’s a feeling he’s all too familiar with, and he can only pray that he only needs a good night’s sleep to get back to feeling normal again.

THE NEXT day, Clover asks Rowan and Mal to meet her at the club to discuss the incident. It’s strange being at the club in the daytime. While it’s normally closed, she’d come in specially for the two of them, greeting them at the front door and unlocking it before ushering them inside. She leads them through the empty club, flicking on lights here and there to illuminate the way to her office. The air feels different somehow. Thicker, maybe. Or maybe it’s the anticipation and dread congealing in Rowan’s stomach and rising up to his throat.

Sitting in Clover’s office under the harsh fluorescent lights, Mal looks about as well as Rowan feels. Rowan notices him glance at his bandaged hand, then quickly flick his eyes away once Rowan curls his fingers into a fist in his lap.

“So,” Clover starts, lacing her hands together behind her desk. “As you both know, fighting is against the club’s rules and usually results in membership suspension.”

Rowan’s heart sinks as he chances a side glance at Mal, his expression hardened.

“But given the circumstances—Mal, your safeword being ignored—we’re obviously not going to take any further action.”

The relieved sigh Rowan heaves is palpable in the quiet room.

“And Steven?” Mal asks, voice stern.

“His membership is revoked with no chance of renewal,” she says, a slight smile in her eyes and voice.

“Thank Christ,” Rowan says.

“I’m sorry that happened to you, Mal. And you, Rowan. We obviously do our best to avoid these types of situations when we vet prospective members, but this seems like an out-of-the-ordinary circumstance.”

“Is he gonna… press charges or anything?” Rowan asks, his temper from yesterday soothed and the potential consequences of his actions finally sinking in.

“No.”

“Woulda killed him myself if he tried anything like that,” Mal says, a fierceness in his voice that makes Rowan’s heart catch in his throat.

He wouldn’t put it past him.

Clover meets each of their eyes, and the moment she switches from friend back to manager is evident. “There’s obviously no making up for this, but your membership fees will be waived for this month. Is there anything else we can do to help rectify this for you both?”

“Long as the fucker’s banned, I’m good.”

Rowan nods in agreement. “Me too.”

“Okay,” Clover says, jotting something down on her computer. “Is there anything else either of you want or need from me today, then?”

With two simultaneous shakes of their heads, Rowan and Mal heave mutual sighs of relief.

“How’d he look yesterday?” Rowan asks, curiosity rising.

“Oh, his nose was definitely broken. You did a serious number on him,” she laughs. Probably inappropriate for the club manager, but what-the-fuck-ever.

“Good,” Mal replies for them both. “Should’a hit him again.”

“Enrico had to wrestle him out the door with how much he was putting up a fight.”

“Damn. Enrico’s a big guy too.”

“Mm-hmm,” Clover agrees. “We had a short but to-the-point conversation. Once his temper calmed down, he seemed to realize what he had done, even if he was unapologetic about it.”

Her eyes harden, and Rowan knows that she would have the same reaction even if it wasn’t one of her best friends who this happened to.

“Guy’s a piece of shit. Can’t believe I never saw it before,” Mal laments.

“You did nothing wrong, Mal,” Rowan tells him, reaching across to lay a hand on his knee.

“Agreed.” Clover nods. “It’s a difficult situation, but I think the both of you handled it the best you could. We have a few legal issues to deal with on our end, but nothing either of you has to worry about. For all intents and purposes, it’s done and dusted.”

Rowan hums thoughtfully. In truth he probably could have not resorted to physical violence, but well, fuck that guy. He wasn’t going to sit idly by while Mal was being subjected to something he didn’t want.

“Thanks, Clove,” Mal says.

Rowan gives his own thanks, and the pair of them walk out of the club with Clover, who locks the door behind them.

Clover pulls each of them into a hug. It’s warm and sincere, a comfort that Rowan appreciates, and he finds himself relaxing into it. She smells like lemongrass and pear, like she did when they’d danced together on Mal’s birthday.

The night that probably started this whole situation in the first place.

When Clover leaves, Rowan and Mal stand outside the door to the Menagerie, taking each other in.

“You wanna go for a walk?” Mal asks, surprising Rowan.

“Sure. Let’s go.”

They set off with no particular destination in mind, quiet for the first few minutes. It’s chilly enough out that Rowan’s glad he brought his green jacket with him—Mal’s got his own light denim jacket on, the rustling of the fabric drawing Rowan’s focus as they walk.

The Back Bay passes them by, all quaint brownstones with wrought-iron fences and yoga studios and cafés decorated with flowers and handwritten chalk signs. Eventually the buildings fade away and small patches of lush green greet them, lit by the early morning sun. The foliage has only begun changing, greens shifting the slightest bit to umber and yellow.

A small, clean park comes into view, completely abandoned at this time of the morning. The brightly colored merry-go-round squeaks, and the plastic-wrapped chain swings rattle in the wind. They settle on the wooden swing set, the black seats dipping under their weight.

“So I went to Sheila’s the other day,” Rowan says, breaking the silence with the spur-of-the-moment admission.

The other day, a couple weeks ago, whatever. Immediately he wants to kick himself. This wasn’t how he wanted today to go. He’s not sure he even wants to tell Mal how he feels anymore, after everything that happened yesterday. At least not today. He isn’t sure how Mal would react to the confession so soon after such an emotional evening.

“Oh yeah? Takin’ over my stomping grounds, huh?”

Mal’s teasing voice pulls Rowan back from the edge, and he huffs out a laugh. Moves his feet a bit to sway against the breeze blowing past his cheeks.

“Nah, just went for a drive and got hungry.” It’s not a complete lie. More like a gentle omission of the truth. “Was weird… being there without you,” he admits.

“Yeah?”

“Mmm.”

Mal kicks off from the ground, starting up a gentle swing with each pump of his legs. Rowan watches him while he sways.

“How’d you find that place, anyway?” Rowan asks. He figures it’ll be a safer subject to talk about than yesterday.

At first, Mal doesn’t say anything. Simply swings higher and higher, until he’s nearly level with the top of the swing set, the wooden frame creaking ominously. On one particularly big swing, Rowan thinks he’s going to go all the way over. But then he stills his legs, letting gravity pull him back to earth in progressively smaller, sweeping arcs. He heaves a sigh as he finally stills next to Rowan, stirring up the wood chips on the ground with his feet.

“When I left with Amy, I didn’t know where to go,” he says, voice nearly drowned out by the wind. When it calms down a minute later, he continues, staring straight ahead into the jungle gym across the park. “Didn’t really have any other family that wasn’t connected to Larry in some way, so we took the T all the way here. Walked for what felt like fuckin’ miles lookin’ for a hotel or something and wound up at Sheila’s since it was the only place open. Turns out the Back Bay doesn’t really do seedy, cheap motels.”

Rowan snorts in acknowledgment, but lets Mal continue.

“So we walk in, two pathetic-ass-looking runaways. Might as well have been soaked through with rain and shivering for how sad we must’a looked. Anyway we ordered some food with the money I’d stolen before we left and ended up sitting there for hours .”

“She didn’t kick you out?”

“No.” Mal turns to look at Rowan, eyes full of disbelief still, after all this time. “Said she heard us talkin’ and wonderin’ where we were gonna go. ’Bout me gearing up to steal a car to crash in for the night. But instead, she fuckin’ just… took us in.”

“No shit?”

“Yeah. Let us stay the night in her office. Had a pull-out couch and blankets. And a fuckin’ safe and everything sittin’ right there.”

“You weren’t tempted to steal it?” Rowan asks.

Mal sways side to side in his swing. “She told me she emptied it the other day, but if the cash was all there in the morning, she’d give me a job and let us stay.”

“Jesus, I knew she was nice, but that’s actual saint shit.”

Mal hums. “I know. Couldn’t believe it. But you bet I didn’t touch that fuckin’ safe. Started workin’ there the next morning. Got Amy enrolled in a new school using the diner’s address, which thankfully no one fuckin’ questioned back then.”

“What’d you do for work?”

“Started washin’ dishes and shit. Bussing tables, cleaning, cooking sometimes when they were short-staffed. She couldn’t pay much, but she let us eat whatever we wanted, which was almost worth more with how expensive food is here.”

“Sounds like you had it pretty good.”

His nod of agreement is evidence enough, but he adds, “Yeah. Fuckin’ sucked sharin’ a pull-out couch with my sister, though.”

“I know the feeling. Had to share beds with all my siblings at one point or another.”

Huffing a little laugh and twirling himself around in a circle, crisscrossing the chains, Mal commiserates, “Fuckin’ Southie, man.”

“How long’d you stay there?”

“’Bout a year.”

Rowan whistles. “You finally save up enough to move out on your own?”

The wind howls, blowing a small pile of fallen leaves around the swing set. Mal dips down and picks one up, pulling the crunchy pieces off of the veins one by one.

“Couple months in, I started lookin’ at her ledgers and saw she was massively in the fucking red. Helped her adjust her pricing, make some changes to the menu, and negotiate with her suppliers so she’d actually start makin’ some real money.”

“Damn, Mal.”

“Started saving up then,” he adds.

Rowan doesn’t know how to put into words how he’s feeling. He’s a little blown away, to be honest. First Sheila’s, then the Menagerie? Mal may have a trauma-and-street-hardened outer shell and an attitude that could scare the collar off a priest, but he has a heart of gold. Seems like he always has too. Rowan wants so badly to see more of it.

“What?” Mal asks, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Nothin’. Just… you’re a good person, is all.”

The compliment doesn’t sit well with Mal, who turns to unsuccessfully hide his blush from Rowan, dropping the now leafless stem to the ground.

“Yeah, well….”

“I mean it.”

Mal laughs gently, the sweet sound nearly swallowed by the wind. “I know you do, Red.”

The nickname jars him a bit after last night. After hearing Mal whimper the word with tears streaking down his cheeks. But more than anything, he finds it comforting that Mal still has it in him to use it in a positive way. In a way just for Rowan.

They sit on the swings until the sun is overhead, Mal occasionally going for bursts of swinging while Rowan can’t quite muster the energy to do more than rock one way or another. All the while, they make small talk. It feels a lot like in the beginning, the two of them avoiding talking about any particularly heavy subject in favor of people-watching and idle chitchat about music and TV shows.

It’s nice, and Rowan doesn’t exactly want it to end. But a family of a mother and three kids shows up to the playground, the kids making a beeline for the swings, only to be disappointed to find them occupied by two adults. Rowan takes it as their cue to leave.

“You ready to head back?” Rowan asks, slipping off the swing.

“Yeah. You got somewhere to be, or you wanna get somethin’ to eat first?”

Rowan grins. “I could eat.”

IT ISN’T until he’s finally back home late that afternoon that Rowan realizes he hadn’t taken his evening pills last night or his morning ones today. He curses to himself, setting an alarm in his phone for tonight.

One day of missed doses won’t do any harm.

He’s okay.