Page 148 of The Menagerie

What was he supposed to do?Notask about it and have Mal think that if something went wrong, he didn’t have a say in stopping? Even as the thought crosses Rowan’s mind, he knows it’s not true. Mal would say if something bothered him or if he didn’t like something. Would probably put a dent in Rowan’s face with those knuckle tats, honestly. If there’s one thing he’s learned about Mal in the time they’ve spent together, it’s that he’s a scrappy fucker with a razor-sharp tongue and the muscles to put his money where his mouth is.

He’s never heard Mal safeword before—not even a yellow—so truth be told, he doesn’t know how he would actually react in that scenario.

But hell, Mal probably should havetoldRowan straight-up that he didn’t want to do a scene if that was the case, and Rowan would have been perfectly fine with that and adjusted accordingly. Wouldn’t have pushed as much, maybe. Been so rough. Not that it was a particularly hard-core scene in the slightest, but still.

The only thing that Rowan can think of to explain Mal’s confusion is simple: Mal was expecting a regular hookup and did a mental double take when he thought Rowan wanted to do a scene. Which means… would Mal beopento regular hookups outside the confines of the Menagerie? Outside their Dom/sub arrangement? Fuck, Rowan wouldlovethat. For months now he’s been lamenting the fact that he can’t see Mal more often. That he can’t fuck him more often—every goddamn day like he wants to. Like Mal deserves.

And he’d finally thought the perfect opportunity came up to bemorethan what they are, and Rowan unknowingly screwed the pooch and slid them back down the hill of intimacy they’ve been steadily climbing.

But Mal had seemed so normal after they fucked. Rowan’s body can’t forget the way Mal had rested his forehead on his shoulder, caressed his hip. The way he’d been all smiles when they’d returned to the group. The warm feeling of his arms around him after Rowan gave him his present. The texting afterward. The planning for the future, a fullyearin advance.

So now he’s all confused again. Hates feeling like this more than anything. So unsure when he’s used to being in control or, at the very least, having a decent understanding of what the hell’s going on in his life. But now…. It’s nothing short of emotional whiplash, and Rowan does not know how to handle it.

The next thing he knows, Rowan’s in his car and driving aimlessly, hoping to find something like an answer to his confusion somewhere on the pavement of Boston’s rigid streets. Twenty minutes later, he finds himself staring up at the unlit marquee lights of the Menagerie. It’s undoubtedly closed now, but the thought of going inside makes his head spin, and he knows it wouldn’t have helped him.

So he turns around, intending to go back and sulk at home like he should have been doing all along, when the smell of bacon wafts in through his open window and another familiar sight comes into view.

Sheila’s diner.

Fuck it. He pulls into an empty spot that thankfully doesn’t require him to parallel park and makes his way into the all-too-familiar diner with the jingling of a bell.

There’s nothing unexpected about the diner—not anymore—but he’s not expecting to see Sheila herself front and center, pouring a cup of steaming hot coffee for one of the patrons at the countertop. For a second, his brain tells him that she’s some kind of ghost that’s doomed to be here forever.

“Rowan!” She beams when she sees him walking up. “I’m surprised to see you in the daylight.”

“Could say the same for you,” he says. “I thought you worked nights.”

She laughs. “Oh no. Just Saturday nights. I’m here during the day the rest of the week.”

Well, that makes much more sense than her being a disgruntled spirit or whatever tall tale Rowan was concocting. Though he does wonder if it has anything to do with that being the night that Mal comes here after he goes to the club.

“What brings you here?” she asks.

“Just in the area.” It’s not a complete lie, after all. “Thought I should finally try your coffee.”

She places a fresh white mug in front of him and fills it to the brim, then places a miniature pitcher of milk down next to it. He normally takes it black, but today he decides to treat himself by adding two sugars and a generous splash of milk.

“Anything else I can get ya? I’m out of apple pie, but I have some lemon squares that are killer. Go right to your thighs, though you look like you can spare the bulk.”

“Sure, that sounds great. And can I get a veggie egg-white omelet, please? Wheat toast?”

“You got it, hon.”

As Sheila leaves to put in his order, Rowan sits at the counter and takes in his surroundings. It’s definitely weird being here in the light of day rather than nearly midnight, when the only sources of light are neon signs and fluorescent lights. The natural sunlight from the large wall of windows streams in, illuminating the bright red stools and benches, the subtle sparkle of the material making them shine. The retro-looking photo frames gleam and reveal old fifties-style posters that Rowan’s never really taken the time to notice before, his attention usually solely on Mal.

It really is amazing how comfortable he’s gotten here, the sights and sounds and smells making him feel at home. What’s sad is how much he misses having Mal here with him. How empty it feels when he’s not here, despite there being many more patrons than every other time they’ve come here.

But the breakfast rush thins out while Rowan waits for his food, and he finds himself once again in a nearly empty diner, much closer to what he’s used to. And when Sheila brings him his lemon square, he finally finds the opportunity to ask her something he’s been wondering about the past few months.

“So I’ve been meaning to ask, but how did you know Hank?”

She scoffs and leans against the counter, one hip cocked to the side. “Bah, that old drunk wandered in here one night high as a kite, lookin’ for handouts.”

Rowan snorts. “Sounds about right.”

“He took one look at my name tag and got all sentimental about some ex-girlfriend of his. Then asked if I was gonna shove anything inside him. I didn’t bother asking, and he didn’t bother explaining.”

Rowan winces, also not wanting to know what the hell Hank was talking about, though he figures it had to do with Sheila Mapleton, who Hank lived with when Rowan was a kid.

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