One
The beat in Lovato’s throbbed in time with Rhys Foster’s pulse. He glanced around the club, searching for a prospective partner... or two. Perhaps a couple willing to have him join their fun. Men, women, whatever; he was down for it all.
An orgy in the corridor caught his attention—three girls and a dude.Yeah, I could dig that. But something made him walk on by, and it was a pattern that continued until he wound up back at the bar.
Disconcerted, he threw himself onto a stool and ordered a beer, anxiety simmering in veins that usually thrummed with excitement when he came to the club. Damn. Was he broken? Or just out of practise? After all, it had been more than a month since he’d last come out to play.Fuck being a responsible adult if this is where it gets me.
He drank his beer and a bottle of water, hoping the nagging sensation that he was in the wrong place would pass. But it didn’t. And the longer he sat there, the harder it became to ignore. Nonplussed, he drifted to the locker room and retrieved his phone. His sometimes regular fuck buddy, Dylan, was still at the top of his contact list, even though Rhys hadn’t seen him and his boyfriend in months. Was it bad manners to call someone up and moan about not feeling the vibe in a sex club?
For anyone else, probably, but Dylan knew the lifestyle as well as Rhys—perhaps better. It was only Angelo’s ill health that kept them away from the club, and if anyone would understand Rhys’s anxious discontent, it was Dylan.
Rhys bit the bullet and made the call. Dylan answered on the third ring. “Well, hello, you. Are your ears burning?”
“Nope. Nothing’s burning. Cold as a wet fish over here, mate.”
“Sure about that? Because it sounds like you’re in a club.”
“I’m in the club, as it happens, but my assessment still stands.”
Dylan laughed, and the warmth in his throaty chuckle went a little way towards lifting Rhys’s mood. He’d played with Dylan and Angelo more times than he could count, and it was moments like these that reminded him why. Acceptance and friendship combined with the hottest fucks ever, what more did a man need?
Everything, dickhead.
Rhys’s humour dropped as swiftly as it had risen. He pictured the last time he’d hooked up with Dylan and Angelo, recalled the absolute love in Angelo’s eyes as he’d fucked Dylan raw, and the answering glow in Dylan’s gaze as he’d stared past Rhys in response.
Nice.
Not. As beautiful as to had been to witness, and as hot as they were together, by the third go around, Rhys had begun to feel a little lonely. And three months later, nothing had changed. Even Rhys’s brother, Harry—who he’d always counted on to be as quietly miserable as him—was now disgustingly and nauseatingly happy.
Fuck my life.
“Um, hello?” Dylan sang. “Did you call me for a reason? Or just to creeper-breathe down the phone? ’Cause, to be honest, I can get that at work when I man the consultation lines.”
“People call Romford Citizens Advice to get their rocks off?”
“You’d be surprised. Or maybe not, given what you’ve told me about 999 call centres.”
“True that.”
“So...” Dylan said. “Not that I don’t love you, but it’s a school night. What do you actually want?”
Oops. Rhys hadn’t even considered the time. Why would he when he was at the start of a blissful week off work? “Crap. Sorry. I’ll let you go.”
“That’s not what I meant. I’m clearly awake and I’m quite happy to shoot the shit, but you’ve got to give me something to work with here. Why are you calling me from Lovato’s? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” Rhys stared at his bare feet. “I’m just—um—not feeling it tonight.”
“Not feeling what? The club? Hooking up?”
“Both, I guess, though it’s nice to be out and about.”
“The hooking up then,” Dylan said. “Slim pickings?”
“Nope. It’s not that.” And it wasn’t. There were plenty of familiar faces around the club Rhys had enjoyed spending time with before. “I’m just... tired of it, I think.”
“Sounds like you should’ve stayed in with a curry and a cuddle.”
“Right. Who the fuck is gonna cuddle me? We haven’t all got an Angelo at home, you know.”