Page 7
Story: The Menagerie
MAL.
The name rattles around in Rowan’s brain like a pinball in an arcade machine.
Mal, Mal, Mal .
It suits him. Much more than Malcolm, at least from the little he knows about the man. Now that he thinks about it outside the haze of horny desperation, Malcolm sounds so formal, like the kind of person Rowan had been picturing before he met him.
Before he fucked him.
Malcolm sounds like the kind of guy who would kick someone off his yacht if they dared to wear flip-flops rather than those expensive boat shoes that Rowan knows nothing about.
Like the kind of guy who’d only want sex at 9:00 p.m. every other Wednesday night for exactly twelve minutes.
Or maybe like the guy the mob would send after you to break your fingers if you refused to pay off your debts.
But Mal.
Mal sounds like the kind of guy that vibes with everything Rowan’s learned about him in the short time he’s known him.
Like the kind of guy who likes shitty beer, probably because he grew up drinking it like Rowan did and never bothered to switch to anything better.
Like the kind of guy who says ain’t and fuckin’ and bitchface.
Like the kind of guy who can get fucked by ten guys and still want more.
Yeah.
Rowan thinks Mal is a much better fit. He likes how the name feels in his mouth, how it rolls off his tongue, though he hasn’t actually said it out loud yet. He’s about to test it out properly when Mal himself snaps his fingers in front of Rowan’s face.
“Yo, you space out on me, man?”
Fuck. Yeah, he definitely did.
“Sorry, what?”
“I asked if you were hungry. I know a place.”
Rowan’s stomach lurches at the thought of spending time with him so soon. “Yeah, starving.”
“Cool. Meet me at the bar in twenty. Need to clean up.”
Rowan nods and checks his phone: 11:43 p.m. It’s much later than he thought it would be, but thankfully he doesn’t have to work tomorrow. He finishes buttoning his shirt and is about to head toward the door when he notices Mal grabbing a handful of washcloths and a spray bottle from the supply table and spraying down the bed.
Rowan knew the rule about cleaning up, so it’s not surprising. But what is surprising is that the nine other men whose mess is on the bed up and left without so much as pretending to offer to help clean up. Actually, given the way most of them acted during the gangbang, he probably could have predicted it.
He rolls up his sleeves quickly and goes to the supply table to grab his own washcloths and the hamper from under the table and bring them over to the bed, where he silently starts wiping the come and lube and sweat from the leather pad.
Mal gives him that same incredulous look he gave him when Rowan offered him water earlier. It makes Rowan’s heart break a little. How has he done this multiple times, according to Camilla, and been forced to bring himself down from orgasm and clean up the whole mess afterward?
“You don’t gotta do that,” Mal says.
Rowan shrugs. “You shouldn’t have to do it yourself. ’Specially when most of it’s not yours.”
“Pretty sure that fuckin’ pile’s yours .” Mal points to a large pool of come directly in the center of the bed where he and Mal had finished.
“Didn’t hear you complaining at the time.”
“Yeah, well, jizz is hot in the heat of the moment. Now it’s just fuckin’ gross.”
Rowan hums in agreement and scoops up the mess with a cloth, wincing as he dumps it into the hamper and letting Mal spray it again before he wipes it clean. Silently Rowan hopes the club provides an industrial-strength cleanser. Working together it only takes them a few minutes to thoroughly clean the bed, making it look like new save for the subtle sheen from the washing fluid.
With a muttered, “Thanks,” Mal dumps the cleaning supplies back on the table. “All right, see you in a few.”
“’Kay.”
Rowan watches him exit the room—still in nothing but his briefs—admiring the way his back muscles flex as he walks. He feels a stirring in his groin, like he hadn’t come twice in the span of a few hours. He can’t help but wonder if it’s the newness of Mal that’s getting him going like this, or if this is what it’s going to be like as long as they’re… whatever . Dom and sub. Fuck buddies. Though Rowan’s pretty sure you need to be buddies first before the term “fuck buddies” is actually appropriate. Right now they’re just people who have fucked and are going to make plans to fuck again.
Probably. Hopefully.
The point is, Mal’s hot, and Rowan already wants more.
When he hears the door to what is presumably the changing room slam shut, Rowan realizes he’s been standing by himself in the Black Room. He tugs at his shirt, regretting having gotten dressed now that he’s going to be out in public again. He’d planned on going home, showering, and passing out for at least ten hours, but Mal had completely changed those plans. And Rowan’s immensely looking forward to spending more time with him, but he feels gross, having only given himself a cursory wipe down before he’d put his clothes back on.
He heads to the bathroom down the hall, marveling at the warm cream-colored walls and soft lighting and cleanliness. Rowan hadn’t been expecting a gas-station bathroom, exactly, but this is some five-star hotel shit.
Mercifully, a basket full of travel-size toiletries sits on the sink counter. Rowan washes his hands, splashes some cold water on his face—careful to not drip onto his shirt—and towels off with one of the rolled hand towels stacked in neat rows. He takes a miniature bottle of mouthwash and gargles with the entire thing, spitting it in the sink after a minute or so. There are a wide variety of deodorant sticks and sprays, including the same Old Spice that Rowan uses at home. He applies a fresh coat, smooths out his shirt, and pockets the rest of the tube, not wanting to waste it.
Somehow, his hair is still mostly fine despite everything that happened tonight, so he simply wets his fingertips and flattens down the curls at his temples that are starting to get a little too long to be left ungelled.
Returning to the lounge, he sees that there are still a decent number of people milling around, which isn’t surprising since it’s only around midnight on a Saturday night. He wanders to the bar, seeing that there are several empty barstools and that Jeremiah is still working.
“Don’t you look freshly fucked,” Jeremiah says to him with a devious twinkle in his eyes as Rowan plants himself on a barstool. “I take it you got in?”
Rowan can’t help the corners of his lips turning up. “Yeah.”
“Good for you. Malcolm’s picky as hell.” He leans closer and drops his voice. “Which is also good for me , since I always make a killing in tips from his rejects.”
Rowan laughs, picturing the scenario perfectly. Dejected men slumping down at the bar, throwing their money at the next pretty thing they see after being turned down by Mal, probably not for the first time. He’s reasonably sure at least two of the men at the bar were in the room with him when Mal picked.
“Anything I can get for you?”
“No thanks, just waiting on Mal—uh, Malcolm.”
Rowan stops himself from saying Mal because he isn’t actually sure if the other man wants people knowing his nickname. Clearly everyone here refers to him as Malcolm, so it’s a safe bet to stick with that when they’re not in private. The little flip in his stomach returns tenfold at the thought of already having a thing between the two of them, but it’s likely that Rowan’s reading too much into things.
To his surprise, Jeremiah’s eyebrows shoot up to his forehead. “Oh?”
“Oh… what?”
Jeremiah’s lips pull back into a secretive smile as he takes a black cloth from behind the counter and wipes away a condensation ring on the bar. “Just surprised, is all.”
Man, for a guy who’s seemingly extremely open about things, everyone is secretive as fuck about Mal.
“Why?”
“He’s usually a one-and-done guy when he’s not subbing for someone long term.”
Once again Rowan’s unsure if he should mention their soon-to-be Dom/sub relationship, but he figures they’re going to be seen together at the club, so it couldn’t hurt to share with a staff member.
“Ah, we’re kinda….”
“Hooo-ly shit,” Jeremiah laughs. “First day at the club and you’ve managed to snag the most sought-after fish in the pond.”
Yeah. He kinda did, huh? Unless Mal decides sometime between now and whenever that Rowan’s not up to his standards and seeks out someone else. It seems he’d have plenty of options.
Rowan gets that now too. Why apparently everyone wants a piece of him. There’s something deeply satisfying about getting to tame someone like Mal. Like Malcolm. To take this wild, feral thing and bump him down a notch or two because that’s exactly what he wants.
And Rowan hasn’t really tamed him. Not yet. Probably won’t ever be able to, and that thought renews all his vigor in an instant before Jeremiah speaks again.
“Should’ve taken a swing at you when I had the chance.”
“Hands off, Jer,” Mal’s voice sounds from behind Rowan.
Rowan spins on his stool to see Mal, taking in his fully clothed figure for the first time. He looks good, wearing black jeans with wide holes in the knees, a plain black shirt, and a light-colored jean jacket. He’s evidently freshly showered, the tips of his hair still misty and tousled like he’d only run his fingers through the length of it rather than brushed it properly.
Rowan suddenly feels gross in comparison and desperately wishes he had showered instead of pulling his clothes on over his dirty body. But if the once-over Mal gives him is anything to go by, he’d say he still looks presentable.
“Relax, like I’d be able to pry him from your claws anyway.”
With an exaggerated eye roll, Mal turns to Rowan. “You ready?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool. Let’s go, Red. Later,” Mal calls over his shoulder as he turns and heads toward the elevator without so much as waiting for Rowan.
Rowan scrambles off the barstool with a quick goodbye to Jeremiah and half jogs to catch up with Mal as the elevator doors open with a ding .
They ride the elevator in silence and then make their way through the first floor—which is packed with people. When they pass Camilla on the way out, Rowan sees her eyes flick up to them for a moment before she does a double take, head snapping up and mouth dropping open like a cartoon character. Instantly after, she bites her bottom lip—visibly fighting a smile—and waggles her fingers at them. Mal flips her off behind his back as Rowan turns and gives her a small wave, at least trying to be polite. She and Mal might be friends, but Rowan definitely isn’t, and he doesn’t want her to think he’s being rude.
As soon as they’re through the double doors and into the warm summer air, Mal pulls out a cigarette and lights it, taking a deep drag before turning to Rowan for the first time since the bar.
“You smoke?” he asks, offering the cigarette to Rowan as the smoke swirls out from his lips.
“Trying to quit, but yeah.”
“ Tch . Been sayin’ that shit since I was thirteen.”
Rowan huffs a small laugh. He takes the butt and places it between his lips to take his own drag, trying not to think too hard about where the cigarette had been. He hands it back, shivering as their fingers brush and mentally kicking himself for not being able to blame it on the weather.
“C’mon.”
Mal shoves his free hand in his jeans pocket and starts walking down the street at a quick pace, making Rowan once again have to take a few half-jogging strides to catch up. He’s thankful for his long legs being able to keep pace with Mal, who would put the old ladies who power walk in the mall to shame. If he hadn’t been there himself, Rowan almost wouldn’t believe this is the same guy who got fucked—and DPd—by ten others. Barely a hitch in his step.
Rowan pushes down the surge of heat he can feel building again, and thinks that Mal is going to be the death of him.
It’s only a five-minute walk to the restaurant, which they pass in comfortable silence. The place is little more than a tiny diner with a neon Open 24/7 sign flickering in the window and a rusty bell that dings when they enter.
Something bluesy is playing on the jukebox, and the air is filled with the telltale smell of fried food and something that might be cinnamon. A plump older woman with rosy cheeks and salt-and-pepper hair in neat pin curls is wiping down the counter when she notices them enter.
“Mal, baby!” Her voice is a soothing low rasp with a hint of sweetness to it.
“Hey, Sheils.”
“The usual?” she asks once they reach the counter.
“Yeah, please. And whatever he wants,” Mal says, gesturing to Rowan.
“Uh….”
Rowan frantically looks up at the overhead menu, consisting of two large blackboards with specials handwritten in chalk. He has no idea what Mal’s usual is, though he has to admit he really likes the idea of him having a “usual” at a small place like this. A Mom-and-Pop type place like you’d see every couple of blocks in the outer limits of the city.
“What can I get ya, hon?” the woman asks. Her name tag reads Sheila.
Fuck, right. Food.
His eyes flit across the menu, seeing typical diner staples and breakfast items served until noon.
“Uh… I’ll have a BLT and fries, please.”
“What kind of toast?”
“Wheat?”
Sheila nods but doesn’t write down his order. Rowan always had to write stuff down when he worked at his sister Aubrey’s diner, even a simple order like that, so he’s impressed.
She fills and hands them two large plastic cups of ice water and tops off the coffee of the lone man at the opposite end of the counter before disappearing into the back.
Mal takes both drinks and nods to a round booth in the back corner of the diner. “C’mon.”
They sit opposite each other, the cushioned seats much more comfortable than Rowan would have expected. Mal takes a few deep gulps of water before setting the cup down on the table with a thunk .
It strikes Rowan that this is probably weird. Being here in a diner with a guy he’d fucked with nine other guys with the intention of getting to know him better so he can fuck him again. Mal’s not saying anything, but the silence aside from the overhead music is driving Rowan a little crazy, so he racks his brain for something to say.
“You come here often?”
He winces. It sounds like a bad pickup line. Mal merely raises his eyebrows at him and leans back against the booth seat, exhaling hard through his nose.
“Yeah. Usually once a week.”
“After you go to the club?”
“Yeah. Haven’t been in a while, though.”
“How come?”
Mal rubs absently at his eyebrow. “Long story.”
“Oh, okay.”
He wants to point out that they have time for a long story, but it’s the universal sign for “I don’t want to talk about it” that has Rowan stopping himself.
They sit in silence while waiting on their food, and it isn’t uncomfortable, but Rowan’s dying to ask him anything about himself. As it is, the only sounds audible over the faint jukebox music are the sizzling of the grill and the occasional clanking of plates and silverware. But he wants to try to make Mal laugh again. Wants to find out what else he’s into and how this thing is going to work between them.
And despite the silence, Rowan decides this is definitely weird as hell. Being here with a guy he’d done a bunch of filthy shit with, watching him pick at his nails and occasionally take a drink of water. It’s like he’s a completely different person in the club versus outside of it.
Rowan wonders if the person he’s seeing now is Mal. Not Malcolm. In the club, he’d been loud and bratty and crass and witty and everything that made the connections in Rowan’s brain light up like a Christmas tree.
Now he’s calmly quiet, fidgeting every once in a while, locking eyes with Rowan for a moment before hastily pulling away to stare into an empty corner of the diner. Rowan thinks about what Jeremiah had told him about Mal—about Malcolm —when they’d been chatting at the bar. Quiet. Bit of a sourpuss. Outspoken.
It seems pretty accurate from what he’s gathered so far. But he wants to know more. Know everything.
It should probably worry him that he’s already so intrigued by the guy, so desperate for any scrap of knowledge about him. But he checks in with himself, and he’s not angry or restless or desperately horny—well, no more than usual—like he is when he’s about to go through a major depressive episode, so he’s okay.
He’s curious, is all.
And he’s about to ask Mal what he does for a living or make some kind of small talk when Sheila’s suddenly next to their table balancing four plates on her arms.
“The usual for Mal,” she says, placing down a stack of banana pancakes, sausage links, bacon, eggs, home fries, and marble rye toast cut into triangles.
“Thanks, Sheils.”
Rowan’s eyes nearly pop out of his skull, not only because it’s a fuckton of food, but also because apparently this woman likes Mal so much she’s willing to make him breakfast food well outside the cutoff time for it.
She places the final plate, a thick BLT with a pile of steaming fries, in front of Rowan.
“And a BLT on wheat for…?”
Mal answers for him. “This is Rowan.”
“Rowan…?”
Rowan clears his throat. “Campbell.”
“Campbell?” She narrows her eyes at him. “Are you related to Hank by any chance?”
Fuck. Leave it to Hank to somehow infect a small diner all the way in the Back Bay with his bullshit.
Rowan heaves a sigh, hoping he’s not going to be chased out with a broom or, more likely, a shotgun. “Unfortunately. He’s my dad.”
“Ah. Well. Can’t be helped, I suppose. I know well enough not to judge someone for the sins of their father.” Sheila squeezes Mal’s shoulder as she says it, while keeping her eyes on Rowan. “You seem like a nice enough boy, Rowan. I hope I’ll see you around again.”
“You too.”
Rowan is confused as hell by the entire exchange. When Sheila leaves, Rowan looks to Mal with an, “Uhh….” but the other man shrugs and stuffs half of a sausage in his mouth.
“Haven’t eaten anything but a protein shake all fuckin’ day,” he says, as if in explanation, barely chewing the food before grabbing his utensils to roughly cut up his pancakes then drown them in syrup.
“Really?”
Mal gives him a You serious? look while shoveling up home fries with his fork. Oh. Yeah, duh. Rowan had already almost forgotten what they’d done. And how much prep it takes to do a big bareback scene like that, or do any kind of anal play really. Usually douching is enough, but apparently Mal hadn’t eaten all day as an extra precaution.
“Oh. Right.” He feels the heat creep into his cheeks and forces himself to focus on his own food instead, suddenly famished.
While it’s hard to screw up a BLT, he has to admit that this particular sandwich is delicious. Fresh-tasting produce, a pile of crispy bacon, bread that’s soft in the center and crunchy on the outside. The fries are good too—not overly greasy or salty like a lot of places make them—and with some sort of spice blend on top that makes him wolf them down about as fast as Mal’s devouring his own food.
When Rowan’s mostly done with his sandwich and Mal slows down, less ravenous and more grazing, Rowan feels like it’s safe enough to at least ask some basic questions.
“So what do you do?”
“Wha’ do I do wha’?” Mal replies, mouth full of food.
“For a job? Or, like, are you a student or something?”
Mal snorts in the back of his throat mid-swallow, somehow not choking in the process, and wipes his face with a napkin.
“I’m an accountant.”
Rowan barks out a laugh before he can stop himself. In return, Mal gives him a flat stare.
“Somethin’ funny, Firecrotch?”
A chill runs down Rowan’s spine, as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice water on his head.
“Wait, you’re serious?”
“The fuck would I lie for?”
“Like a sexy accountant or a real accountant?”
Mal rolls his eyes. “A real one, jackass. I’m good with numbers.”
“Oh. Jesus, sorry. Guess I just… can’t picture you doing anything corporate.” Rowan’s eyes flick down to Mal’s knuckle tats and back up to his face in time to see his eyes roll.
“They let me work from home.”
“Oh. That’s good.”
“Mmm.”
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 7 (Reading here)
- Page 8
- Page 9
- Page 10
- Page 11
- Page 12
- Page 13
- Page 14
- Page 15
- Page 16
- Page 17
- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 20
- Page 21
- Page 22
- Page 23
- Page 24
- Page 25
- Page 26
- Page 27
- Page 28
- Page 29
- Page 30
- Page 31
- Page 32
- Page 33
- Page 34
- Page 35
- Page 36
- Page 37