Page 1 of Julian Shared
Prologue
Joel
Ten years earlier…
“Who’s the redhead?” I tip the neck of my bottle toward the dance floor.
Among the throng of sweaty male bodies swaying along to the beat of the music, his swaying form sticks out. Even if he is a short and skinny thing. He’s smack-dab in the center of the action, surrounded by the crowd…but utterly alone.
He ain’t dancing with anyone.
A sweet little thing like him ought to be fighting off the grunts with a stick.
This club is well off from the local military installation, but this whole town is funded by army green. Every business, even the nearby university, can only keep the lights on because of soldiers like me.
“What?” My friend, Manuel, yells back. He hasn’t heard me. Could blame it on the music, but both our hearing went to shit years ago.
We can thank all those generous deliveries of mortar fire for that.
“The redhead!” I shout back, leaning shoulder to shoulder to meet my friend’s ear. “Who’s the redhead?”
I point out the subject of my interest again and Manuel stops ogling the bartender long enough to take a gander at the mystery boy.
I figure Manuel will have some intel. Ever since we lucked out and got posted here together, Manuel’s made it his personal mission to sleep with, or get rejected by, every piece of twink ass in town.
He practically lives at the club. Can’t blame him for it.
It’s the only local gay hot spot that has some semblance of dignity outside cruising areas. This sort of club ain’t my type of place, but I can’t be picky. And other military guys don't really do it for me.
I’m always on the lookout for the barracks bunnies.
Manuel does a double-take at the redhead before shaking his head. “Don’t even think about it, Joel.”
Well, now that he’s told me not to — I’m definitely thinking about it.
I set down my half-finished bottle with no intention of polishing it off.
“Joel, man, I mean it. Don’t stick your dick in crazy.” Manuel reaches for my arm, but I shrug him off. “That’s the post commander’s son.”
That ain’t a deterrent to me.
If anything, it’s a challenge.
And that makes it a turn on.
I push past the rowdy horde of dancers and make my way direct to my target. Yeah, that’s right. What was only a curious interest before has quickly turned into an obsessive need to not only hunt down, but acquire.
The club’s unofficial dress code is shiny black leather or weathered denim. The colonel’s son must not have gotten the memo because he’s wearing neither. He’s in a damn polo shirt with a sweater tied around his waist.
A real rose among thorns.
I opted for a pair of simple denim blue jeans over any fetish-y leather. Or my fatigues. I might be an asshole, but I’m not one of those assholes who march around civilian spaces in uniform during their downtime. I only wear my dog tags. That’s more than enough to draw out any barracks bunny from their burrow.
And, potentially, might lure a military brat with daddy issues my way.
In the middle of the dance floor, there’s no talking.
There’s only the music.
