Chapter 9 Daddy Shamus

Shamus was thinking of bringing Miguel home, but he wasn't sure if he'd want to hang out all night. He figured he could ask him, but he was still bruised.

"Hey, I want to ask you something," Shamus said.

"The answer is yes." His face lit up with a beaming smile, showing his excitement.

"I didn't ask my question yet. How do you know you want to do what I was going to ask?"

"Were you going to ask me if you could spend the night with me?"

"No, I wasn't."

"Oh. Sorry." Miguel's smile faded, replaced by a look of sadness. "I didn't mean to force myself on you and act needy."

"Force yourself on me?" He pulled Miguel into his arms and kissed him on top of the head. "I was going to ask if you wanted to spend the night at my apartment over the bar?"

"Whew! I thought I was the only one who wanted to be together. I want to spend the night, Daddy Shamus."

"It doesn't mean I'm going to try anything while you're all bruised. I just want to cuddle you." He ran his hand down Miguel's back.

"I'm fine for more than just cuddling." Miguel licked his lower lip.

"That's good to know. Let's stop by your room to pick up some clothes for tomorrow."

As they walked to the hotel, they could smell the aroma of fresh pizza wafting from the nearby stands. Miguel packed clothes and some personal things into his backpack, then they walked to the bar and went inside where music was blaring, and people were drinking.

"Hey, Shamus!" his cousin Finn called out.

"What's up?" Shamus leaned over the bar with Miguel at his side.

"Who is this?"

He turned to Miguel, "This is my cousin Finn." Then he said to Finn, "This is Miguel. Do you need some help?"

"I'm swamped. Jimmy was busy."

"I can help." He turned to Miguel. "You want to stay and drink a Coke, or I can take you upstairs."

"I'll stay and watch you."

"Follow me. There's a stool for you to sit on. If you want to go upstairs, I'll give you the key and you can relax. I'm going to help until it slows down or closes."

"Thanks."

Shamus cleared a stool in front of him and made Miguel a Coke.

The bass thumped through Shamus's chest, a counterpoint to the clamor of the Seaside Sips' crowd. Steamy breath fogged the air, mingling with the sharp tang of spilled beer and the ever-present scent of salt from the Atlantic just a stone's throw away. Neon signs from the boardwalk outside bled garish colors through the grime-coated windows, casting an almost psychedelic glow on the packed bar.

His cousin Finn, all lanky limbs and booming laughter, was already wrestling an enthusiastic bachelorette party into taking their tequila shots one at a time.

Shamus envied Finn's carefree air. He longed to be out there, swapping jokes and stories, anything but the constant vigilance needed from a bartender on a Seaside Heights summer night. His gaze flicked to Miguel, who was looking everything over. He wondered if he had ever been inside a bar at twenty years old.

Suddenly, a loud, slurred voice cut through the music. A man, two sheets to the wind, was waving his empty beer mug like a weapon, demanding another round. Shamus knew the type—the trouble a boardwalk bar attracted on a good night.

"Hey there, big guy," Shamus shouted as he moved away from behind the bar. "Looks like you've had enough for tonight."

The man's bloodshot eyes narrowed. "Another round, barkeep. Are you deaf?"

Shamus sighed inwardly. "I said you're cut you off, pal. House rules."

The man lurched forward, his breath reeking of stale beer and desperation. "Rules? I make my own damn rules!"

Before Shamus could react, the man shoved him against a patron sitting around a table. Adrenaline surged. Years of dealing with unruly patrons kicked in. Shamus grabbed the man's arm, surprising him with his strength, and with a swift jerk, propelled him towards the door. The man stumbled, flailing his arms, before landing with a thud on the boardwalk outside.

There were gasps and shouts from the crowd. Shamefaced, Shamus grabbed a rag to wipe down the spilled beer on the table he was pushed into. He hated resorting to physical force, but sometimes there was no other option.

"Anyone seen security?" he called out, his voice strained.

A moment later, Charlie, a burly man in a khaki uniform, materialized beside him. Shamus explained the situation, relief washing over him as the security guard escorted the ejected patron away from where he was peeping through the window.

As the crowd returned to their drinks and conversations, Shamus stole another glance at Miguel. There was an older man with a long beard talking to him. Anger clawed at him, intensifying with each passing moment. In an instant, he got between Miguel and the older man.

"Stay away from him. He belongs to me," Shamus said.

"Are you two married?" the older man asked.

"Get the hell away from him!" Shamus shouted. It was evident that the man, in his late sixties, was captivated by the sight of his beautiful Miguel, as drool formed at the corner of his mouth.

"Why don't you put a sign on him?" He turned around and left the bar, the sound of laughter and clinking glasses chasing him out.

Shamus yearned for a quiet night in with Miguel, away from the chaos, the spilled drinks, and the ever-present threat of trouble.

"Hey, Shamus. Jimmy's coming in. We can handle the rest of the night."

"Thanks."

Rubbing his eyes, Miguel stood and trailed behind him up the stairs to his apartment.

"I'm sorry that guy hit on you. What did he want?"

"He wanted me to leave with him. I told him no."

Shamus wrestled with a knotted shoelace, the flickering neon sign from Seaside Sips casting a red glow across the room. The distant screams and laughter from the boardwalk rides were a nightly chorus, a counterpoint to the muffled bass from the bar below. His apartment, a one-bedroom shoebox above the whole operation, wasn't much to look at. Empty coffee mugs littered the scratched coffee table, clothes migrated mysteriously from the bedroom to drape precariously over furniture, and the air smelled faintly of stale beer. It wasn't fancy, but it was his for the summer. He loved living on the boardwalk with all the action and fun.

"I hope you don't mind the mess. I think it's noisier here than your hotel room."

Tonight, though, the usual clutter mocked him. He couldn't help feeling a deep sense of shame as he surveyed the chaotic mess. Miguel took in the apartment's disarray while he sat perched on the edge of the faded plaid armchair. He was a slob in the summer, but when he returned to his home, he had a cleaning service to keep it up. What if Miguel was a clean freak? He had no idea what he thought of the messy, loud apartment.

"Would you like one of my special frozen chocolate drinks?" Shamus asked.

Miguel winced through his smile. The pain was evident as he gingerly pulled the corner of his bruised bottom lip. "Sounds great."

Shamus grabbed a washcloth from the sink, running it under cold water. "Here," he muttered, extending the cloth. "Hold this on that lip for a sec."

Miguel complied, his hand trembling slightly as he pressed the cool cloth to his lower lip. Shamus busied himself with drinks. Miguel looked lost, like a stray cat in his apartment. Just maybe, having Miguel staying with him for the night might be the start of something more. He hoped so.

He handed Miguel the drink, then sat in the other armchair.

"How do you sleep with all this noise?"

"It quiets down when I get to bed. It's not that bad. In an hour, it should be quiet."

"It doesn't matter as long as I'm with you."

"Does anything hurt you now?"

"Just my legs. My lip hurts."

"Can I see you without your clothes to see how bad your bruises are?"

"Now?"

"Finish your drink first. You have beautiful eyes. They are very expressive. They show who you are."

"Thanks. I think I wear my feelings in my eyes more than my face."

"A little of both."

After they finished, Miguel got up from his chair and walked to the bedroom. Shamus followed him.

The boy wasn't shy at all. He stripped off every article of clothing, leaving himself completely bare. Shamus gasped, his eyes widening at the sight of his bruised and swollen skin.

"They sure kicked you a lot. I have something that might help the bruising heal faster and take some of the pain away. Are you okay with me putting cream on you?"

Miguel nodded, his eyes shifting down to the floor. Shamus left the room, found a tube of arnica gel, and returned. Miguel had carefully folded the lightweight bedspread to the end of the bed and was lying flat on his back. His erect cock stood proud, commanding attention.

Shamus smiled. "What a beautiful cock! Just like you."

"Thanks."

Shamus rubbed the soothing cream onto his legs and hips. The poor boy's body was covered in painful bruises.

"Turn over so I can put some on the back."

Miguel flipped over for him so he could rub the cream on even more bruises.

"I hope that helped a bit. I'm going to get undressed and let you rest in my arms." He undressed, feeling the cool air against his skin, before slipping under the covers and into bed.

He cradled Miguel in his arms, making sure he was positioned comfortably and snugly.

"Daddy Shamus, this feels so good."

"I want to do more, but I'm going to wait until you're healed."

"Thanks. I hope I heal soon because I need you."