Page 17 of Mystic Wonderful

But Tris, already damp with sweat, his heart racing – and then racing harder with the exhilaration of getting Gallo pinned, seeing his dark curls tickling the mat, feeling the raw strength in his body as he fought the grip; feeling the heaving of his ribcage through his back, skin hot through the thin cotton of his shirt.

It had been woefully easy to envision how it might play out. Pressing back into him, shoving a hand up the back of his shirt, skin-on-skin. Leaning low to growl in his ear, and pulling back just enough so Gallo could roll over, his face flushed, his eyes glazed. Tris would kiss him, first, like he never kissed any of his hookups, because this boy was so, so pretty, and he just had to taste, had to feel the little gasp of surprise and pleasure against his lips. And then he would lower himself, bring their bodies together–

He’d panicked, plain and simple.

He’d had to leave or risk doing something idiotic, hating the crestfallen look on Gallo’s face, hating himself more. He’d meant to pretend it never happened, to go on like they had before, but he’d stepped out of the locker room one day, and there Gallo had been, lovely and awkward and sweet, trying to apologize, and Tris had reacted like a fucking bear.

He hadn’t meant to drag him down a hallway, and definitely not to threaten and insult the hell out of him at the same time. But once he opened his mouth, he was bowled over by an ugly fit of jealousy, because he knew that he couldn’t have Gallo for himself, it was impossible, but the idea of Gallo turning that adoring grin on someone else around base, someone actually willing…it turned him vicious.

He’d berated himself when he got back to his dorm, called himself ten different kinds of idiot.

Then had come the knock.

Then had come Gallo, bristling, defensive, and not taking one ounce of bullshit.

That hadn’t done a damn thing to help with Tris’s…well, he couldn’t call it a crush. It was too hot and destructive for that.

A truce existed, now, because Gallo had insisted on it, self-deprecating, and cheerful, and hurting, and stronger than Tris had ever been in this respect.

So they had a truce. They talked, sometimes, and they sparred, and Gallo had packed away all his awe and longing, and Tris might as well have been Gavin for all the lingering looks the boy gave him. And that was fine.

And Tris was going insane.

The first chance he had to do anything about it was in New Mexico.

It was snowing, soft flakes mixing with floating gray ash, all their breath pluming in the chill air. String lights cast a festive glow over the open-air markets, hawkers calling from stalls, scents of food and leather and poured candles wafting along on the breeze.

Gavin slung an arm around Gallo’s shoulders, grinning like a loon.

Tris knew where he would take him. Knew exactly where.

Tris turned, and walked off on his own, desperation pounding inside him like a second heartbeat.

He knew where he had to go; couldn’t put it off any longer.

The establishment he sought sat behind a row of market stalls, occupying the second and third floors of an old, drab building whose brick had once been red; it was accessed via the grocery shop on the first floor, a sad affair with buzzing low-energy bulbs and more cigarettes than food available. At the top of the stairs, a bouncer took his fifty up front, patted him down, and nodded him through.

Madame Zelda, lined and worn, her makeup doing nothing to conceal the rough texture of her face, never seemed to age past a certain point. She regarded him with flat disinterest, in her curtained, overly-perfumed parlor, and went to get the books for him. Laid them out on a black lace covered table and flipped right past all the girls, knowing better.

This part always left him overheated in an unpleasant way, keenly aware of the woman’s gimlet stare, breathing in cigarette smoke and chemical flowers as his heart thumped and lurched. It always seemed necessary to seek out a place such as this when he had gone too long without, stretched thin and distracted; and especially this time, with Gallo there every time he turned his head, tempting, and fierce, and sweet, and absolutely off limits.

But now, as it always did in moments like these, when he was choosing…his stomach shriveled, and his chest felt hollow, and he just wanted it over with. A physical release of tension that would help him get through the next days, weeks, months without doing something rash – likeconfessingor some such bullshit.

He stared unseeing as Zelda turned the pages, tension winding tighter and tighter in his belly, until one photo finally arrested him.

The young man looked about thirty, still boyish, but like he knew what he was doing. His smile in the photo was too cocky, too knowing, but he had dark, curly hair, and blue eyes, and, if he squinted, Tris thought be might be able to pretend, at least for a little while, in a dark room.

“That one.” He tapped the laminated page, and Zelda nodded, and rang the bell.

~*~

A small part of Francis held out hope that, despite the heavy arm across his shoulders, and the lecherous winks, and all the unsubtle innuendos, Gavin wasn’t in fact taking him to a brothel. But then they were stepping off the street, away from the bustle of the market, through a black-curtained doorway and into a room bathed in pink light, and they were most definitely in a brothel.

“Uh – Gavin–” he tried, once again, only to be ignored, once again.

It was a surprisingly large room, with swaths of dark fabric draped in loops from the high ceiling to offer an air of intimacy. He saw the door to a hallway in back, as well as a few screened-off areas. There were…sounds. And there were sofas, cozy just for two, and a few for three, and people strewn across them: city men in rough dress, and girls in all shapes and sizes wearing scraps of lace and leather holding their attention. One man sat on a sofa between two beauties, and Francis hastily looked away, face flaming.

“Gavin.”

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