Page 9 of The Menagerie

“Are you planning on getting another drink tonight, or should I put that in for your freebie?” Jeremiah asks.

“Oh, uh, no, I’m good with this. Thanks.” He pauses, tapping the side of the glass a few times. “Do you guys carry Blue Ribbon by any chance?”

To his surprise, Jeremiah huffs out a quick laugh, but it doesn’t sound unkind. “We do, but hardly anyone orders it ’cause it’s such a shitty beer.”

Rowan isn’t offended. “I’m a shitty beer kinda guy.”

“You’re in luck. Turns out so is Malcolm—he’s one of the few who drink it, so I always keep a couple cases in stock.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mmm.”

That surprises him. For some reason, Rowan had expected him to like top-shelf liquor, so now his mental picture of the guy is all over the place.

Jeremiah makes small talk with him between helping other members at the bar, none of whom catch Rowan’s eye. Rowan lets himself get lost in his thoughts, most of which migrate inevitably to thisMalcolmguy. It’s an uncommon name. Rowan doesn’t know shit about name etiology or he’d try to develop a picture of him based on his name alone.

He’s finishing his drink when he notices many of the members in the bar and lounge migrating toward the end of the hallway and a set of black double doors. He checks the time: 7:58 p.m. This must be what Camilla was talking about.

Thegangbangis going to start soon.

He discards the empty glass on the bar with a five-dollar bill under it as a tip and heads toward the crowd. There’s an excited buzz in the air, like the feeling at a concert after all the openers have left and the main act is about to begin.

Rowan worms his way to the front to find the double doors to the Black Room have been opened and the men have started filing in.

As expected, the walls and floor inside are completely black, the room lit surprisingly well by white spotlights in the ceiling. Also on the ceiling are large hooks, likely designed for suspension rigs. Rowan can practically feel his pupils dilate.

A series of glass cases lined with black velvet adorn the walls, filled with more toys than Rowan’s ever seen in hislife. Everything from cords of every color rope to dildos to bondage gear. The cases are surrounded by open black curtains on either side, the silky fabric catching the light and making them shine.

In one corner is a table set up with condoms and numerous bottles of lube, sanitary wipes, a sink with hand towels, and a mini fridge filled with bottles of water. Rowan hadn’t considered the logistics of something like this, but it seems like pretty much everything is taken care of.

In the center of the room is a larger than king-size platform bed, topped with a thick black leather cushion rather than a mattress and sheets.

But the bed is much less interesting than what’s in front of it.

Who’sin front of it.

Malcolm.

And fuck, when Rowan actually takes him in—this mysterious Malcolm whose reputation preceded him from the second Rowan stepped into the club—Rowan’s both over- and underwhelmed.

He’s standing at the foot of the bed, weight on one leg, with his arms crossed low over his chest. And Rowan doesn’t know how to describe what he sees other thangoodin all the right ways, but definitely not how he was expecting.

For one, he’sshort. He can’t be more than five foot six or seven to Rowan’s six two, and he’d be lying if he said that the height difference didn’t do something for him. And he’s…. Rowan doesn’t want to say stocky, because that tends to come with a certain sense of unattractiveness, but he’s broad around the shoulders and chest, clearly defined muscles half hidden beneath a layer of softness in his arms and belly that Rowan immediately wants to squeeze and watch the skin turn white under his fingertips.

And Rowan had expected bronzed, but Malcolm ispale, not washed out but with a healthy glow making all that porcelain skin look smoother than it probably is, if the sparse dusting of dark body hair on his arms and legs and the smattering of scars are anything to go by. But the color of his skin is broken by dozens of blackwork tattoos—not an ounce of color from what Rowan can see.

The first piece he notices is across the man’s chest, a trio of lilies—the largest in the center with two smaller ones on either pec—intertwined with two old-fashioned pistols aiming toward his shoulders, plumes of smoke swirling out of each barrel and up toward his collarbones. Next comes his right inner forearm, a skull and crossbones shrouded in black mist.

On his rib cage on the left side is a traditional American-style tattoo—minus the color—of a heart with flowers and leaves peeking out behind it and a curled scroll with the word LISA. It stands out among the realistic style of the rest of his tattoos, and Rowan can’t help but wonder who she is and what garnered her a position on one of the most painful parts of the body to get tattooed. Rowan still shudders, thinking of the pain of getting his own cross tattoo on his rib cage.

His eyes are drawn downward. Black boxer briefs are the only piece of clothing Malcolm is wearing, tight enough to cause a slight bulge where the fabric digs into the flesh of his thighs and the V of his hips. On his right thigh, a thin strip of detailed lace is inked beneath the hem of the briefs, wrapping around like a fucking garter belt, a knife expertly tattooed underneath as if actually holding the weapon against his skin. Realistically, the blade would cut through the delicate material, but in the world of ink, this impossible scenario is making Rowan’s head spin.

There is a smattering of other, smaller tattoos on his arms and something peeking out on either side of his hips underneath his briefs, and Rowan finds that he desperately wants to get closer to inspect them all.

Malcolm rubs his hands over his face, giving Rowan a perfect view of his knuckle tattoos. It takes a second for his brain to register the words upside down, but as soon as it does—the tattoo spelling THUG LIFE—something in him lurches.

He needs to know more about him.

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