Page 4 of Now Comes the Dark

Motherfucker.

Someone knelt on the floor in front of him, dressed in nothing but a white jockstrap and sneakers. His dark head was buried in the stranger’s crotch, moving back and forth in a dipping motion. His face was obscured, but Roman knew exactly who had stolen his prize. His creamy, round arse was unmistakable with his tattoos, FUCK on the left cheek and ME on the right. Cameron Taylor.

The little slut.

He might have known that, of all the guys here, Cameron would have homed in on the man he wanted.

The stranger put one hand on the back of Cameron’s head, guiding the pace and motion, looking down at him with half-closed eyes. Roman rose onto his toes, hoping for a better angle, wanting to see the man’s cock, but Cameron’s head blocked the view. Cameron was in his element, not just performing a blow job for the recipient but putting on a show for the spectators. He arched his back and raised his arse, widening his knees enough to open his buttocks and expose his hole.

Jealousy sickened Roman to the pit of his stomach.

He had never hooked up with Cameron. Despite being a similar age and Cameron’s incredible good looks, Roman had never found him attractive. They were too alike in many ways—the hottest, freshest boys on the scene, the ones everyone else desired.

Roman couldn’t watch anymore. He couldn’t bear to see his closest rival enjoy the thing he craved the most.

Cameron might as well have poured a bucket of iced water on Roman’s dick.

He pushed his way back down the tunnel. It was time to leave.

* * * *

Roman sat in the beer garden of a pub called Julie’s and nursed a double vodka and Coke. He was alone. He had no enthusiasm to return to Sash and catch up with his friends, but it was his first weekend off in months, and he wasn’t ready to go home, either. Julie’s was friendly and unpretentious. They played chart music and camp classics, and the bar appealed to lesbians and indie kids—a world away from the preening posers in Sash.

He checked the dating apps on his phone with little gusto. He had wanted to make a true connection with a real person tonight, not swipe on some rando he could meet any day of the week. With a sigh, he shoved the phone in his pocket.

It was quarter to two. The pub was winding down to closing. There were about fifteen other people scattered around the beer garden in groups, laughing and having fun. Music poured through the open door from the main bar, where a drag DJ was taking her final requests of the night. Roman wondered whether to get a last drink here before final orders, or to move on to The New Inn, which stayed open until three at the weekend.

“What’s the matter with your face?” the manager, Phil, asked as he came around collecting empty glasses.

His voice broke the self-pitying spell Roman had fallen under, and he raised a smile. “Ah, you know what’s it like. It’s been a long night.”

“We don’t usually see you in here on Fridays.” Phil put his glasses down on Roman’s table and sat beside him.

“Weekend off.”

“I wish I knew what one of those was. All right for some, eh?” Phil was almost forty with a neat beard that was running to salt and pepper and a slender build. He was very good-looking and lots of Roman’s friends fancied him, but Roman saw him more as a caring uncle than a fuck-buddy. He would hate to ruin their friendship with an impulsive hook-up. “So why exactly is your face like a smacked arse?”

Roman laughed. Like all great bartenders, Phil had the knack of reading people like books. “I’ve just come from The Viaduct.”

Phil grimaced. “Now it makes sense. I’d be miserable too if I’d been in that shithole.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“It’s not good. Why does a boy like you want to waste his time in a dump like that? You know you can take your pick from the best guys in the village.”

“Because I’m not always a nice boy,” Roman said. “Not all the time, anyway.”Tonight, I wanted to make a real pig of myself. It just wasn’t meant to be.

“You can still do better than going there,” Phil warned, giving his arm a reassuring pat. “So, what else have you got planned for your exciting weekend of freedom?”

“Not a lot. A long lie-in tomorrow. Catch up on TV and probably come out again tomorrow night.”

“You’re on your own now? You’re not planning to walk home by yourself, are you?”

Roman shrugged. “Probably, yeah…if it stays dry.”

“Don’t. Get a taxi. Didn’t you hear? Another lad had the shit kicked out of him last weekend. The fuckers broke his nose and knocked out a couple of teeth.”

“Shit. No, I hadn’t heard. Did you know him?”

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