Page 8 of These Hallowed Bones (Bloody Desires #3)

Ezra

The Hollow was precisely as I had described it: a gathering place for those at society's margins. At the end of a poorly marked gravel road, the converted barn’s weathered exterior gave little hint of the vibrant community within.

The rough-hewn wooden beams overhead and polished concrete floors below were callbacks to a time when the barn held animals instead of people.

Yet the purpose remained. Instead of horses corralled in stalls, it held people penned in booths, performing social scripts.

I arrived twenty minutes early, securing a corner booth that offered an unobstructed view of both the entrance and the entire establishment. This positioning was deliberate; it would allow me to observe Micah's reaction upon entering, to gauge his response to the clientele.

The Hollow's patrons represented a diverse cross-section of society's periphery: artists with paint-stained fingers nursing cheap beer, musicians with instrument cases propped beside their tables, service industry workers unwinding after early shifts, and a significant number of same-sex couples displaying varying degrees of affection.

Not exclusively a gay bar, but undeniably a space where such interactions were normalized, not exceptional.

I ordered a single-malt scotch, allowing the peaty aroma to fill my senses as I waited, observing the dynamics playing out around me.

A couple at the bar —two women, one significantly older than the other — caught my attention.

There was a particular quality to their interaction, a subtle dominance in the older woman's posture, a receptivity in the younger's responses that mirrored the dynamic I intended to establish with Micah.

A hand at the small of the back, fingers briefly encircling a wrist. Control without obvious assertion.

When Micah entered, I had the pleasure of observing his unguarded reaction to the environment.

He paused in the doorway, eyes widening slightly as he took in the diverse clientele, gaze lingering momentarily on a male couple seated at the bar, their hands interlaced on the polished wood surface.

A complex series of emotions crossed his features: surprise, confusion, a flicker of what might have been longing quickly suppressed.

He scanned the room, relief washing over his face when he spotted me in the corner booth. The sanctuary of the familiar amid the challenging unknown. I waited, allowing him to come to me.

"You found it without trouble," I observed as he slid into the booth across from me, his cheeks flushed.

"GPS," he said with a small smile. "It’s tucked away."

"That's part of its charm. What will you have?"

"Whatever you're drinking is fine."

I nodded, pleased with this small surrender. "Tell me, Micah, what do you see when you look around this room?"

He hesitated, glancing cautiously at our surroundings. "People seeking connection," he said finally, choosing a safe response. "Or escape. The lighting creates interesting shadows, makes everyone look a bit... unreal."

"Good observation," I said. "But look deeper. Who draws your attention first? Where does your gaze naturally rest?"

The server placed another scotch before me and an identical one before Micah. He took a sip, wincing slightly at the strong flavor, using the moment to gather his thoughts as his eyes scanned the room more deliberately.

"The man at the end of the bar," he said finally, indicating with a subtle tilt of his head. He’d chosen a well-built man in his forties, silver beginning to thread through his dark hair, nursing a beer in solitary contemplation.

"Alone, but not lonely. There's something.

.. contained about him. Self-sufficient. "

An interesting choice that revealed more than perhaps Micah intended.

The man possessed a physical type not dissimilar to my own—mature, fit, radiating a quiet authority.

His solitude recalled my own cultivated isolation.

The selection was revealing, a Rorschach test of Micah's unconscious attractions.

"Why him?" I pressed, watching Micah's face closely.

He took another sip. "He seems... comfortable in his solitude. Unlike most people here, who are clearly seeking something from others."

"The greatest artists made art of what they desired most," I said. "Who do you desire here, Micah? As a subject... or otherwise?"

The question hung between us, its dual nature, artistic inquiry and personal probe, exactly as I'd intended. Micah's cheeks flushed deeper, but he didn't look away, a testament to how rapidly our previous encounter had begun dismantling his defensive architecture.

"I don't know if I have a type," he said carefully, the lie transparent in his hesitation, in the way his eyes briefly flicked back to the solitary man at the bar.

"Everyone has preferences," I countered gently. "Aesthetic patterns that attract us. The Church may have taught you to fear your desires, but art demands honesty. Is he your type, Micah?"

For a moment, I thought he might retreat, might fabricate some safe, academic response. Instead, he surprised me with sudden directness.

"No," Micah said quietly, his eyes lifting to meet mine. "He's too... complete. I'm drawn to people with visible fault lines. People containing contradictions." His gaze held mine, something defiant in it now. "People with shadows."

I allowed myself a small, appreciative smile. "That’s an excellent answer. Now you're beginning to see."

We spent the next hour developing Micah's observation skills, teaching him to look beyond surface appearances to the vulnerabilities beneath.

I showed him how to identify signs of isolation, of emotional hunger, of past trauma written in the set of shoulders or the pattern of a laugh.

With each lesson, I leaned closer across the table.

I occasionally allowed our fingers to brush when reaching for our drinks.

He was surprised at first, but as the night went on, he became more comfortable with the proximity.

"The woman by the jukebox," I suggested, indicating a slender brunette standing alone, scrolling through song selections. "What do you see?"

Micah studied her. "She's been here a while. Came with friends, but they've either left or she's avoiding them. She keeps checking her phone but trying to look like she isn't. Waiting for someone who isn't coming."

"Very good," I murmured, genuinely impressed by his quick adaptation. "What else?"

"She's... beautiful, but doesn't know it. Or doesn't believe it. Keeps adjusting her clothes, her hair. Checking her reflection in the jukebox glass." He paused, his voice dropping. "She'd be easy to approach. To... convince."

The predatory assessment surprised him; I could see it in the widening of his eyes, the tension in his jaw. The shadow had spoken through him before his conscious mind could censor it.

"Convince of what, Micah?" I asked softly, leaning closer across the table.

"To... go somewhere private," he said, the admission clearly difficult for him. "She's lonely. Looking for a connection. Vulnerable."

"And what would you do with that vulnerability if it were offered to you?" I pressed, watching the conflict play across his features.

"I'd..." he began, then stopped, reaching for his drink with a slightly trembling hand. "This is just an artistic exercise, right?"

"Of course," I agreed smoothly, allowing him this temporary retreat.

"Though art and desire often spring from the same well.

The greatest creators understood this. Rodin and Camille Claudel.

Picasso and his many muses." I paused. "Does the female form interest you at all, Micah? As subject or... otherwise?"

His fingers tightened around his glass, knuckles whitening slightly. "I've drawn women in figure drawing classes."

"That's not what I asked.”

He looked down at his drink. When he spoke again, his voice was barely audible above the ambient noise of the bar. “No. Not... like that.” He let the confession hang in the air briefly before looking back at me. “I’ve never told anyone that.”

"It takes courage to speak the truth after so many years of being punished for it,” I said.

"How did you know?"

"You attended a retreat at Covenant House Ministries,” I pointed out.

“How could you possibly—”

“You listed Reverand Thomas Morris as a professional reference on your admissions paperwork,” I explained. “I spoke with him before extending my offer of mentorship to you.”

Micah leaned back in the booth, staring at me.

“In my undergrad admissions paperwork,” he clarified, which was true.

It had been nearly seven years since he’d applied for his undergraduate degree, and Micah Salt was no longer the boy he’d been at eighteen.

Technically, the reverend’s recommendation was completely useless to me.

It told me nothing about him as an artist. But it did reveal a lot about him as a person.

“He spoke very highly of you,” I added.

“He told you? I thought… I thought the retreats were…”

“Confidential?” I finished. “Perhaps not. Though revealing that to me was unethical on his part. That speaks more about him than it does you. It certainly didn’t detract from your ability as an artist.” I pushed my glass away.

“It’s not widely known that the Covenant House runs a conversion therapy program. That part was a guess.”

“Based on what?” His tone edged toward anger.

"It's evident in your work, Micah. In the way religious iconography appears in states of torment or destruction. In how you hold yourself when certain subjects arise. The body remembers what the mind tries to forget."

He turned away.

I reached across the table, placing my hand over his. “Dear boy, I’m not judging you.”

Micah frowned. "You... you don't think it's wrong? To be..."

"Gay?" I finished for him when he couldn't bring himself to say the word. "How could I? It would be rather hypocritical of me."