Page 180 of The Menagerie

“Hey, Jeremiah,” Rowan says, plopping down at the one empty seat at the bar.

Jeremiah looks up and beams that bright smile of his, throwing up a finger to signal one secas he expertly mixes a cocktail.

Another bartender that Rowan’s never seen before comes over to take Rowan’s order, pours him a plain seltzer with cut-up lime wedges and sets it down on a napkin in front of him.

By the time he’s three sips into his drink, Jeremiah slides over to him and leans across the bar, half shouting over the din of the music and chatty patrons.

“How’s it going?” he asks.

“Good, you?”

“Busy as hell,” Jeremiah laughs. “But great. What brings you here on a Thursday?”

“Wanted to see if I could get your advice on something.”

Jeremiah checks his Apple watch. “I’ve got a break in about ten minutes if you can wait till then.”

“That’d be great. Thanks.”

The ten minutes fly by, mostly taken up by Rowan fielding advances by twinks and daddies alike and letting his thoughts fade into nothingness under the heavy bass of the music. He swears it’s more attention than he’s gotten in his entire life, but absolutely none of it interests him. Not when he’s got Mal to look forward to now.

Jeremiah waves at him and gestures for Rowan to follow, Rowan taking a last sip of his drink before sliding a five under the napkin and pushing it closer to the edge of the bar. He follows Jeremiah through swinging double doors behind the bar, past a bustling kitchen area, and into an employee lounge that’s blissfully empty and quiet. A few tables and comfy-looking chairs are strewn about the middle, with a fridge in one corner and countertops filled with all the necessities, plus an expensive-looking deluxe coffee machine.

“Don’t tell the twins I let you back here,” Jeremiah says conspiratorially.

Rowan laughs and says, “I won’t,” but wonders if they would actually care if theydidknow.

As Jeremiah grabs a protein bar out of his locker, Rowan sits at one of the round tables.

“So what’s up?” the other man asks, taking a heaping bite of his bar.

Rowan feels a twinge of guilt for taking up his time, but steadies his breathing with a long, slow breath.

“Mal asked me to come over.”

It’s said in a rush, a blurted-out thing that he’s been bottling up for the past week. As Rowan half expected, Jeremiah’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, and he stops chewing on his snack altogether.

After a brief moment and an audible swallow, Jeremiah says, “Holy shit.”

It reminds Rowan of the time after the gangbang when he’d told the then-stranger that he and Mal were going to be starting a Dom/sub relationship.

“I’m kind of freaking out” is all Rowan can say to explain why he’s here, taking up Jeremiah’s break.

The smile he gets in return is kind—not pitying—for which Rowan is eternally thankful.

“Am I correct in assuming he wanted to break one of the club’s rules?”

Rowan’s eyes widen a fraction. “Yeah, how’d you know?”

“Mal is one of my best friends, and we’ve known each other for years now. It’s not exactly a secret that he likes getting choked out, even if heisthe one who suggested banning it from the club in the first place.”

There’s a twinge in Rowan’s gut that he doesn’t like. “So, he’s done this before, then?”

“Nah, not even close. Anytime we’ve talked about it, he’s beenextremelyintent on mentioning that he keeps his personal life separate from his sex life.”

The twinge turns into a cascade of warmth and churning rapids.

“Oh.”

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