8. Neon Nights

CHAPTER 8

Neon Nights

Dominic

Perhaps I was grinding my teeth too loudly without realizing it. It drew Zain’s attention, and he shot me a nervous smile. “I can’t believe it’s really happening,” he confided.

I made myself smile back. “You’re that excited?”

He shrugged, but the smile on his face didn’t go away. Last night, he had told me about college. He’d harbored hopes that going to college would cause some cosmic miracle, after which he would simply be like everyone else. It was a wishful fantasy, one I understood well enough. “But I didn’t move to campus. And no one ever invited me to parties.”

“Parties are overrated,” I’d told him without thinking.

“I wouldn’t know,” he’d replied, ending the conversation there.

The car moved slowly but surely with the traffic in the city. It was filled with cologne scents, mixing my alpine freshness with Zain’s sweet and spicy choice. It suited him. He was like that, sweet but with a fiery streak.

He wore a black T-shirt of Orwell’s choosing. It fit him better than his regular old ones. The sleeves were a little shorter than the standard cut, folded once, and they revealed his long triceps and the gentle curve of his biceps. The fabric was a little tighter around his torso, letting the viewer notice the fine narrowness of his waist.

“Why didn’t you ever sneak out and go to that place if it’s so close?” I asked.

“Couldn’t,” he replied simply. “I shared my room with my sister and brothers.”

“I’m sure you would have found a way,” I said, thinking of several ways I would have done it had it mattered so much to me.

Zain bit his lip and said nothing for a long time. He looked out the window at the passing buildings, streetlights, and cars. “They’re all so…confident. I wouldn’t fit in.”

“Of course you would,” I said, not trying to flatter him at all. “You’re young, you’re gay, you’d have had a blast.”

Zain’s cheeks turned a darker shade of red. He let out a breathy laugh. “I don’t know about that. I’m not…sexy like them.”

My chest tightened like the car seat was trying to swallow me. I looked away. It was impossible to say anything to that. So I swirled the whiskey in my glass and held my breath. But the silence wasn’t comfortable at all. It was filled with patient expectation. He’d left those words there, dangling in the open, and I chewed my lower lip as I stared at my drink. Finally, almost too quietly to be heard, I said, “You’re wrong about that.”

I sensed him turning his gaze to me. From the corner of my eye, I could see the surprised—and pleased—expression on his face. I didn’t look back.

“I think we’re here,” I said once we had passed my building and Orwell turned a corner. The flashing neon sign above the entrance informed me that the destination was near, and I had failed to soothe all my reservations about this.

It wasn’t just that I disliked parties. I knew what people thought of me. For better or worse, I had a recognizable face, and I knew what they called me around these parts. Baron—a stupid nickname that was given to me for evicting a struggling digital media business after they had failed to settle their debts for an entire year. They had bitten off more than they could chew. They had approached me with so much enthusiasm that even I was moved, but none of it translated into work ethic. The ragtag group of self-styled journalists ended up eating pizza and smoking weed, writing lists of top ten whatever, hoping to go viral on the internet. And when they ran out of other people’s money, I had no choice but to take my office spaces back.

Baron of Manhattan…

There wasn’t a place in this city where I could go without at least one person calling me that. Tonight would be no different. A packed bar of rebels and runaways, as the press had called them a little while ago when they’d made headlines, was bound to have hostile feelings for one of my kind. It wouldn’t matter that I was gay. It wouldn’t matter that I was there only for the pleasure of someone who was just like them.

I held my breath as Orwell stopped the car and then exhaled. “Thank you, Orwell. That will be all for tonight.”

“I will prepare the penthouse, sir,” Orwell informed me.

“Only the bedrooms. We won’t be in the city for long.” Impatience to return to Harringford was all too audible.

“Very well, sir,” Orwell said. It didn’t escape me that he made the reply pointed, although I couldn’t tell why.

Zain and I got out of the car and stood in the cold night air in front of a brick building. A small group of people came from the opposite direction and filed into the bar. They all wore jackets over tight tank tops and tighter pants, their hair done in wild and colorful ways, and their faces painted with glitter or makeup. Their sole existence made me feel out of place and, worse, out of time. Perhaps I should have taken Orwell’s advice when he entered my dressing room earlier and asked me if I was sure about wearing a white shirt.

I balled my fists and pressed on, leading the way for Zain, who carried his warm jacket folded over his arm. His skin prickled visibly after a gust of wind rolled over us.

The chill was so sudden that the incredible warmth of the bar was overwhelmingly welcome as we walked in, shutting the door behind us. And while the music was fairly loud, and the space was filled with people, it wasn’t as aggressive as any old nightclub. We’re still early , I thought to myself, scanning the crowd.

Zain hooked his jacket on a peg in the corner.

“Zain?” Someone shouted. My fists tightened. Did he have enemies? I made a move to step in front of Zain when a young man pushed through the crowd. He was tall and toned, wearing a sleeveless top that bared his muscular arms, and his hair parted in the middle, making a double arch above his brow, with locks closing around the outer corners of his eyes. He didn’t notice me at all but stretched his lips into a welcoming smile. “I don’t believe it.”

“Tristan?” Zain replied as he stood next to me.

“You just disappeared,” the young man said with a touch of accusation. “Mama Viv was worried sick. Your father wouldn’t tell her where you were.”

Zain’s eyes widened. “My father met her?”

Tristan looked at Zain with surprise all over his face. “I still need fresh herbs, man.”

Zain chuckled, but I could hear the force his laughter required. “Oh, of course.”

“Where were you?” Tristan pressed on.

I was sorely tempted to ask him to back off when Zain flashed a more genuine smile to the young man. It was warm and bright, like sunshine. Something turned cold in me. “I got a job. Of sorts.” He turned a little to me. “This is Dominic. My boss.”

The cold sensation thickened in the pit of my stomach. His boss? Of course. I was his boss. And ten years his senior, too. It would be smart if I remembered that. This other guy, however, was much closer to Zain’s age, and the foolish optimism of youth was painted all over him. I could see how someone inexperienced could find that attractive.

“Pleasure,” I said, embracing the outstretched hand and shaking it.

“You look familiar,” Tristan said. “Do you come here often?”

“First time,” I said, causing a bewildered expression to flicker on Tristan’s face. A moment later, his eyes widened a little as he placed me.

“Oh,” Tristan said, eyebrows rising high. “Welcome to Neon Nights.”

I nodded, pulling my hand back.

Tristan turned back to Zain, although he had lost his balance a little after recognizing me. “Gotta dash. Cedric’s waiting for his mojito. But find me later. You have to tell me about the job.”

Zain hesitated a little; he was clearly pleased that he should receive such attention from a handsome young man. I wasn’t sure what it was that I felt—if anything—but it couldn’t possibly be jealousy. “Will do,” Zain said.

“Let me get us drinks,” I told Zain when Tristan disappeared into the crowd.

The bartender was mixing cocktails like an expert but in a somewhat flashy manner typical of these places. His top was sleeveless and tight, emphasizing his physique, and I wondered if people fell for that. Did they order drinks more often because an attractive bartender would flash them a grin?

I pulled out a crisp bill and waved it when the bartender finished serving a pair of purple-haired goth girls whose black clothes were covered with “fuck the patriarchy” badges. The bartender looked at me flirtatiously and asked me what I would like to drink in a smooth, seductive voice. It was all I could do to stop myself from telling him to rein it in a bit. I asked for a surprise, one whiskey-based, another nonalcoholic. And when he was done, serving me a plain-looking glass of whiskey with a drizzle of something else and an elaborate and colorful concoction in a tall glass, I handed over the bill and told him to keep the change.

I carried our drinks to Zain, who had moved a little further away from the entrance and stood by the windows, one arm resting on the long, narrow bar that ran along the length of the wall. He wasn’t alone.

A short-haired young man around Zain’s height was chatting with him. A possessive sensation flared in me as I stepped closer, putting our drinks on the bar.

The young man turned to look at me. “It’s true,” he declared, looking into my eyes.

“What is?” I asked, hackles rising along the back of my neck.

The young man looked much more hostile than Tristan, one side of his upper lip lifting as he mock-smiled. “Be honest. Are you here to try turning this place into a luxury restaurant?”

Something clicked in my brain as worry passed over Zain’s face. Part of me was offended, of course, but amusement was a much stronger sensation. “You must be Roman Cross.” My hands were deep in my pockets, but so were his.

“You heard of me?” Roman asked, glancing at Zain.

“I don’t think there’s a rich person in the city who hasn’t heard of you, Mr. Cross,” I said. “You keep the old-money boys awake at night.”

Roman snorted. “It’s not about the age of the money, Mr. Blackthorne.”

“You’ll forgive me if that doesn’t particularly worry me,” I said.

A drag queen wearing a color-shifting dress that hugged her curves to perfection and a bright red wig pushed through the crowd and joined our little party. “Are you scaring my guests, Roman?”

“Only a little, Mama Viv,” Roman replied with a tight smile.

“Stop it,” the drag queen scolded him. “Welcome to Neon Nights, darling.” Acrylic nails extended from her long fingers, red like the wig, as she placed her hand in mine. “Lady Vivien Woodcock,” she introduced herself. Then, turning to Zain, she beamed. “I’m so happy to see you here, Zain. It’s long overdue.”

Zain’s cheek turned a darker shade. “Thanks, Mama Viv.”

The drag queen turned to me again, a warning in her clear, sharp eyes. “We’re all very fond of Zain, Mr. Blackthorne.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” I replied, trying not to sound icy. To me, these were the people I distrusted with Zain’s well-being. Even so, it warmed me a little that someone watched his back, even if they were all strangers to me.

“Enjoy the party. It’s about to start,” the drag queen said, then shot Zain a warm smile before turning to Roman. I overheard a mutter about having something better to do and something about someone called Everett.

“Quite a crowd,” I pointed out as Zain came closer.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize they’d see you as a…well, a threat.”

I waved it off. “I’m used to it. Please. Enjoy yourself.” And after glancing around one more time, I added, “I’m glad to see you have friends. You never mentioned them.”

Zain shrugged shyly. “I didn’t realize we were friends.”

I would have asked him about that right away, but lights dimmed suddenly, and artificial fog began to fill the bar. Lasers and stage lights flashed around frantically, building up the anticipation and distracting you from the dark stage on the far side of the bar. And when the lights flashed to life on the stage itself, five young, tall, slender queens in skimpy, slutty drag were standing on the stage in a perfect pose. A track cued, blasting some modern, dancey pop tune from the speakers, and the bar erupted in cheers, hands rising high, bodies shifting around, and the dance floor filling up.

It was quite a spectacle, although I was perfectly happy to be just an observer.

I lifted my poorly mixed cocktail and toasted Zain silently, and then we each tried our beverages. Zain’s eyebrows shot up as he nodded with pleasure. Guilt filled me for dismissing my drink when it touched my tongue. Flavors of whiskey existed only as the base of it, but vanilla, orange peel, and subtle notes of oak excited my taste buds. The bartender took me seriously, serving a proper surprise.

I was stiff, wooden, and entirely out of my depths, but Zain, who had never done this sort of thing, was swinging his shoulders gently to the beat of the music. He sucked his cocktail through a big, swirly straw, nodding in the rhythm of the song, and we both watched the stage, where the queens acted out a lip-sync battle.

Song after song, the stage was filled with different performers, and the center of the bar was full of dancing bodies. A few observers like us stood by the walls, bobbing their heads or tapping their feet, but the main attraction was the dance floor. More than a few young men had abandoned their tops, sweat and glitter shining when the beams of light hit them.

Zain watched the crowd with youthful fascination. I could almost put myself in his shoes. Perhaps ten years ago, this sort of thing would have excited me. The endless prospects of playing cat-and-mouse with willing guys, fever dreams of intoxication, and sheer destructive lust. I couldn’t blame him for not knowing where to look. To someone who’d never let himself indulge in this sort of thing, all these guys were too alluring to resist.

So I buried my nose in my glass and sipped my cocktail, letting Zain live out his fantasies. Had we gone to a nice rooftop restaurant, I would have…

What?

I didn’t know what I would have done.

All I knew was that there existed a sort of urgency deep within me. Something was tense and tight, strung so far that it was threatening to snap, but I still didn’t have a name for it.

“Do you want to dance?” Zain asked.

Begrudgingly, I glanced in his direction, wondering who he was asking, only to find his gaze squarely on me.

Every fiber of my being wanted to say no. The urge for self-preservation, even if it was simply a defense against other people’s mockery, was so strong that I almost frowned. But he was sweet and soft and gentle, all the things I’d pushed away from myself when I was his age or younger.

Before I could decide on my course of action, I found myself nodding and set my glass on the counter. Perhaps the cocktail had been stronger than I’d thought, or I’d eaten very little to protect myself from the power of whiskey, but my hand touched the side of Zain’s narrow waist as I led the way closer to the dance floor.

Even as I wondered if I still knew a few dance moves from a decade ago, I saw us surrendering to the power of the crowd. They all swayed and twisted in different ways, not caring if they were out of rhythm, and something lifted from my conscious mind, allowing me to care a little less about the way I looked.

I scanned the crowd and met Roman’s gaze. The self-conscious part of me wanted to pull away and not do this, but the young man tipped his head to me and winked, his lips stretching into a grudging smile.

Zain lifted his head as he let the music lead him and danced inches away from me. We found a rhythm of our own. It loosely matched that which the speakers blasted at us, but it worked for our styles. He was free, shifting like a forest brook, moving where the surroundings led him, but he wasn’t weak. He was persistent and carved his own way where the resistance was the lowest.

I resisted the yearning to touch him. He was so ephemeral, like some dreamy embodiment of all that was good, visible through the mist of an early morning. And when he lifted his arms high above his head, his torso arching back, his body surrendering fully to the sensations of his dance, images flooded my mind. I saw him bathing in a forest stream, naked and cold, drops of water on his shoulders and chest catching sunlight that pierced through the rich canopy above. The image was so sudden and striking that it overpowered my body. It pushed me forward and made my left arm wrap around Zain’s waist.

He looked into my eyes, and we both froze in this incredible moment, shorter than a heartbeat, yet still and infinite, a coin spinning in the air. And when it fell, not a second had passed, but we had passed some threshold that I couldn’t be sure we could return to. Something had given.

Zain pressed himself against me, leaving a trail of fire wherever his body touched mine. He danced, his muscles constricting and relaxing as he moved, and I followed. I did what he did, keeping us close, keeping the contact going.

He didn’t move back from me again. One song melted into the next one, and Zain kept himself glued to me, leading the way into the heart of the dance floor. And when his hands rested on my upper arms, holding my biceps, my heart thundered in my chest.

A fine layer of perspiration covered his smooth, bronze face. His eyes closed, and he let his head hang back, safe in my arms. His eyelashes were so ridiculously long that it made something in my chest hurt. We spun around, his hands moving to my chest and my arms holding him around his upper torso. I felt the muscles knotting in his back. And I felt him dragging his hands over my body.

I would have blamed the cocktails, but his drink didn’t have an ounce of alcohol. I had made sure of it. It was pure euphoria.

And when his upper leg moved between my legs, hellfire roared to life in my groin and abdomen. It filled my veins and set my nerves on edge.

Zain acted as if he couldn’t feel it, but I was certain that he could.

Every sense of what was proper, what was right and wrong, and what was a gross breach of our agreement sank into the depths of the abyss, and what remained was this swirling sensation of closeness. I couldn’t tell you who was at fault, although guilt marked me as the one to be blamed. I should know better than that. I was older and rich and powerful.

But I was not as strong as I had always believed.

And just now, I didn’t want to be. I didn’t want that strength coming to life and preventing me from dancing with Zain.

As the song faded into silence, we finally parted, and I felt a cool air in the space where our bodies had kept one another warm. The music that faded in was tense, building up to the main act of the evening, and the stage was empty once again. What followed was a spectacular rendition of some dancey, melancholic song I didn’t recognize, sung in the natural voice of Lady Vivien Woodcock as she sang and danced her heart out on the stage. Some guys jumped up and down, but most of us stared in awe. The others had danced up there, lip-syncing with a precision that went beyond talent, but Vivien sang in her true voice, neither male nor female, and it was enough to lift my heart from the deep, dark cave in which it cowered.

When it was over, whistles and ovations flooded the bar. I found myself, shocked as I was, clapping and hooting with everyone else, earning a grin from Zain.

“Look at you having fun,” he said.

I held his gaze and wondered how much more fun we could have if this night never ended.

Lady Vivien Woodcock joined a small crowd on the far left side of the bar, and after a round of hugs and kisses, she lifted her gaze and landed it right on me. With long acrylic nails for emphasis, she lifted her hand and motioned for us.

“We’re being summoned,” I informed Zain.

He looked over to Vivien and nodded, then turned around to fetch our drinks, brushing against me so slowly that it had to be intentional. And before we moved toward the small group over there, he halted against me on the way back. “Thank you,” he said. “For tonight.”

“It’s not over yet,” I said just loudly enough to cut through the music the DJ was playing.

People who danced now were in much smaller groups, and many returned to their drinks and tables on the sides of the bar. When we reached Vivien’s party, it consisted of six young men.

The sense of relief was almost funny when I realized all six were committed. Not that I could trust any of them with their intentions with Zain, but I found it unlikely they would fight for his attention when in pairs. Roman and Tristan were both accompanied by guys who had their arms around them protectively, although I couldn’t be sure whether Roman’s gentleman was protecting him or holding him back. Roman, for his part, wasn’t as hostile, but he did direct a measuring gaze at me.

The remaining two guys were closer to my age. One was a slender blond, looking like a Tolkien’s elf put on the twenty-first century Earth, and the other was a short-haired, bronze-skinned man with warm eyes and a disarming smile. Zain introduced me first, then told me their names. I thought that Luke Whitaker was familiar before I realized I had a certain graphic novel with his name on the cover somewhere in my library. Rafael, I understood then, greatly resembled the protagonist, whose likeness decorated the cover. The remaining guys were Everett and Cedric, whose names I’d heard in passing and both of whom I’d seen on the news when the Langley mess had played out in this bar. Everett, if I recalled correctly, was the Langley in question, while Cedric was none other than His Highness Cedric Philippe Valois Montclair from a rather forgettable European kingdom.

Luke Whitaker and his man occupied Zain’s attention, together with Vivien, asking him about the way he’d gone away without a word. I pushed through the awkwardness of joining a well-formed group of friends—a type of social construct that was the hardest to penetrate, easily harder to join than billionaire clubs—and forced myself to make small talk. To Cedric, I said, “I was impressed by your work in the Contemporary Culture Museum last month.”

“You know of it?” Cedric asked, genuinely surprised. “My contributions were minimal.”

“That’s not the impression I left the exhibition with,” I assured him.

He gave a shy smile. “I didn’t realize we had an art lover in our midst.”

I chose not to tell him I wasn’t part of this group. Instead, I shrugged. “I’m not sure if I qualify as such, but I do have a rather peculiar collection that’s currently on display in Greenwich Gallery.”

“You don’t mean the queer-coded portraiture exhibition, do you?” Cedric asked, awestruck.

It caught me off guard that he knew about it, and it must have been evident because Tristan threw his arm around Cedric’s shoulders. “There isn’t an exhibition in the city he hasn’t visited.”

“Must be fun for you,” I pointed out.

Tristan laughed out loud. “Yours were mostly naked, so it actually was.”

“Good old Henry Scott Tuke,” I said with such joyful warmth in my voice that it surprised me.

Cedric excitedly spoke about the works by the great painter and the tragedy of World War I when many of Tuke’s models, immortalized on his canvas, had gone to fight in the war.

“He’s not such a bad fellow, huh?” Roman pointed out snarkily. “Maybe we’ll let him take Zain after all.”

I hadn’t realized that it was up to debate. And when Vivien scolded Roman lovingly, I understood that it was just his strange sense of humor. Everett Langley, the son of the disgraced billionaire investor I had had the misfortune of meeting on several occasions in the past, exuded the confidence and, if I weren’t mistaken, entitlement of wealth. But that was a judgment I had to take back after a time when the story of the fallout following last month’s standoff came around. Apparently, Everett worked for a startup in client relations rather than living off of his father’s wrongly accumulated wealth.

“We’ve all faced one form of discrimination or the other,” Vivien explained.

“But we’re still here, standing proudly,” Tristan said.

There was an overwhelming sense of optimism in this ragtag group of troublemakers. I struggled against it as best as I could. Optimism was a sure way to lose most fights. Optimism left you unprepared, and I failed to see the point in trusting some higher power to act on my behalf.

Even so, when the conversation died down and the night came to a slow and lazy end, I couldn’t leave without some of the warmth rubbing on me, too.

Zain and I said goodbye to the Neon Nights crowd, and Vivien followed us to the door as if seeing us out of her home. I suspected that was how she felt. “You’re welcome here. Both of you.”

As we slowly walked down the street, hands deep in our pockets and shoulders lifted against the cold air, I realized I couldn’t deny her. We were welcome there. For the first time in so long, I didn’t hear lies in those words.