Page 42 of The Menagerie

Jeremiah nods, retrieves a bottle from a fridge under the counter and uncaps it in one smooth motion. He places a cocktail napkin and glass on the bar top, then expertly tilts the glass and pours the beer so the foam reaches the rim without spilling over. It reminds Rowan of his own bartending stint, however brief, the memory less than fond. He shoves the thoughts away, not wanting to taint his night with memories of his past.

Rowan nurses his drink rather than downing it like he’s tempted to and risk losing his faculties. He swivels on his stool and takes in the club properly for the first time tonight.

Blue- and white-tinted lights stream down onto the dance floor and illuminate a crowd of writhing bodies dancing to the low, bassy music. A few couples make out in corners only marginally darker than the rest of the club. Small groups of people crowd around both the high-top tables and low-top booths, glasses clinking with sporadic toasts between bouts of laughter and snippets of conversation.

His eyes drift back to the dance floor and lock on to a guy in a tight tank top, biceps bulging and body rolling in a way that makes Rowan have to spread his thighs a little bit wider. He watches him dance, making his way toward Rowan one beat at a time.

He’s so focused on the guy’s bedroom eyes and the cut of his jaw that he barely notices the wave of people around him splitting and rejoining as someone moves through the crowd. He sees a hand snake around the man’s shoulders, causing him to turn in place. And then there’s Mal, easily a foot shorter than the other man, pulling him down by the neck and saying something in his ear.

Rowan jolts upright, willing the music lower—unsuccessfully of course—so he can hear what Mal could possibly be saying to him. A few seconds later, the man runs his hand down Mal’s arm and squeezes his bicep once before melting back into the crowd.

And then Mal’s making his way toward Rowan, and the lights are shining on him, casting pretty shadows across his cheekbones and making his eyes glisten, and God, he looks fuckingethereal, and Rowan’s wondering how he ever looked twice at the other guy.

“Yo.”

Rowan ignores the pulse of excitement that courses through him, the weeklong build of anticipation of seeing Mal again finally releasing as a tingling he feels all the way out his limbs.

“Who was that?” he blurts out, rather than offering a normal greeting.

Mal turns as if he’d already completely forgotten about the guy he’d spoken to.

“Him? Dunno, Jason… Jackson? No fuckin’ clue.”

“Oh. So you don’t know him?”

Golden eyes rake down Rowan’s body like he’s being scanned. It makes the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand upright.

“Fucked him a few months ago. Kind of an airhead, but he’s got a big dick.”

“Bigger than mine?”

Mal scoffs, but there’s an amused smirk on his face. “Got a complex?”

“Just scoping out the competition.”

“Tch.”

Mal plops down on the stool next to Rowan, nodding to Jeremiah when the bartender makes eye contact with him. Mal’s dressed similarly to last time, dark jeans and fitted maroon top with a white denim vest, the sleeves fringed like they’ve been cut off. Rowan likes it. But now that he knows Mal’s an honest-to-Godaccountant, he’s having a hard time imagining him in slacks and a button-up. Though Mal had said he works mostly from home, so maybe he has no need for fancier clothes.

Frankly, Rowan would much rather imagine him naked…

… or he could wait, like, an hour and see it for himself again in person.

Yeah, that sounds much better. Saliva pools in his mouth at the thought, dredged up from the carnal part of Rowan’s brain that hasn’t been able to catch a break since he walked through the doors a week ago. He hones in on the glass as Mal takes a sip of his beer, watching the amber liquid disappear into his mouth.

He can’t believe a few hours ago he thought he’d have a problem getting hard again.

“How was your week?” Rowan asks after watching Mal take two more sips of beer.

Mal places the glass down but keeps his hand wrapped around the base of it, one finger tapping the side like he’s trying to decide what to say. Which is weird because it shouldn’t be a question that really requires any thinking.

After a moment longer, he finally says, “Fine.”

“That’s good.” He waits for Mal to ask him about his own, but after another long sip, he realizes he probably isn’t going to. “Mine was good.”

“That’s good,” Mal mimics the enthusiasm in Rowan’s voice, though it’s definitely put on.

Rowan can’t get a read on the guy, and it frustrates the hell out of him. For someone willing to share extremely intimate details about himself, he seems unable or unwilling to talk about anything mundane. Maybe he hates small talk, butfuck, if they’re gonna do this, they need to at least be able to talk like normal humans. Rowan’s about to say something when Mal takes another deep drink of his beer and he’s struck with a different thought.

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