As Fedora managed his blurry vision and navigated his weak knees toward the counter, he could already hear his name becoming the centre of the tea.
The air behind him was thick with the judgment of those who knew him best.
"He's so boring, and unbelievable," one voice drifted over the bass of the music.
"Who invites his friends for hangouts and becomes the party pooper?"Another voice echoed softly, feigning a sweet, sugary confusion.
"Guys, let's take it easy on him." Tyra urged, stealing a quick, worried glance at Fedora's unstable silhouette as it drifted further away.
With a tired shake of his head, he added, "He's drinking too much. Must be heartbreak."
"When is it never a heartbreak, oh please!" one of them dismissed, the comment sharp enough to draw blood.
"Idiots!" Fedora muttered through clenched teeth, advancing forward. Just because he refused to share his private life....God forbid a boy has his little secret.
One thing was certain: if no one stopped him, he was sure to drink until he knocked himself out, until he woke up in a hospital bed with a sterile ceiling for a view.
"Just fill this with anything strong," he murmured toward the barman. He leaned heavily on the counter and, with a careful but loud thud, dropped his empty glass, waiting for the refill with a jagged kind of patience.
The man behind the bar studied him with a flicker of concern, but a bartender's salary won't pay itself. Without hesitation, he gave a soft nod and launched into a rhythmic, mechanical mixing and shaking mood.
Fedora stood for a while, swaying slightly, and since the concoction was taking longer than intended, he decided to hop onto the long wooden stools. He finally found a comfy spot to lean on the polished surface, his world tilting dangerously.
That was when the entrance door gently swung open. A troop, probably a dozen men, walked in, briefly catching everybody's attention as they headed toward the empty seats with an air of absolute ownership.
They moved like they owned the building, the air, and every soul inside it. Fedora's face soured for a quick second; his mind immediately labelled them.
These types of circles were always the 'homophobic, toxic masculinity type,' a monochromatic blur of ego and leather. He didn't pay them much attention.
So street thugs get a reservation now? Maybe it's a sign for me to start staying at home, he thought, but then brushed the thought off.
He turned back to the bartender, cupping his red, flushed face with his palm, watching the way the man's muscles flexed under the weight of the Boston shaker.
Just as he was about to get comfortable, a voice broke his trance.
"Good evening, sir."
It was polite...too polite.
Fedora moved his eyes in the direction the voice came from. Standing there was a gentleman in a neat apron, wearing a smile that looked calculated to the millimetre.
Fedora's face went sour again immediately, his head shaking as he sat up straight.
"What is it now?" he asked, his voice laced with a raw irritation as he measured the man.
He expected the usual hypocritical lines: Sir, I think you've had enough. Let's get you an Uber. But fortunately and unfortunately, that wasn't the case today.
"Is there a problem?" Fedora fired, his annoyance growing at how the man just stood there like a dusty 'welcome' mannequin.
"Not at all." The man let out a dry, nervous laugh, waving his hand in an apologetic gesture.
"Ummm… we actually don't do this here, sir, but..." The man paused, his expression shifting as the bartender finally refilled Fedora's glass with a dark, lethal-looking liquid.
Fedora stretched his hand toward him, a sharp gesture for him to wait. He grabbed the glass and gulped down the whole liquid in one savage go.
"Ahhhh!" he exhaled bitterly, slamming the glass down with that same careful, heavy thud.
"Another one, please," he ordered the bartender, before turning back to the waiter. No more words were needed; his dull, barely open eyes said it all: Speak up, I'm already bored.
The man cleared his throat, leaning in slightly. "Sir, it's just... someone wants to pay for your expenses. I told him you came with friends, too, and he said he got it all covered."
"Wow. Did you? So nice," Fedora replied, his voice dripping with a sarcasm that could melt the ice in his glass.
His face scanned the room, looking for whatever riff-raff, audacious son of a bitch thought he could buy his evening.
From the waiter's stiff body language, Fedora could tell the offer came from one of those 'thugs' from earlier.
His answer had sounded sweet, but his nose scrunched with a visceral distaste.
Someone wanted to cover his bills and those of his friends?
"As per, damsels in distress. Sheesh!" He took a quick glance back at his 'never-ending talk' friends.
They would approve of this without a second thought, they were stupid like that.
Then his gaze landed back on the waiter, who was waiting patiently for a "thank you" that wasn't coming. A soft scoff of disbelief escaped Fedora's lips.
He leaned close, using his last scrap of strength to hide just how agitated and disrespected he felt by the gesture.
"Well, I have a message for you, too."
**********
At the far end of the room sat the presumed thugs.
One thing was undeniable: none of them was bad-looking. In the flickering, moody light of the club, they looked like hot fantasy book demons draped in tempting silk and expensive shadows.
They were deep into their drinks, the air around them thick with celebration and masculine bravado.
"Thank you so much, Sir Miguel," one of the men said, palms placed together with a slight bow. What followed was a rhymed chorus of greetings and gratitudes directed toward the man at the centre of the orbit.
Miguel.
He sat at the very dead end of the room, a deliberate distance from the others.
You needed no one to tell you that there was a hierarchy here; from his calm composure and calculated movements, it was clear Miguel was at the absolute top of the food chain.
Another undeniable factor was his appearance.
'Hot' was a pathetic understatement. He possessed an eye-catching, extreme lethality, a handsomeness that felt like a threat.
He looked like a man carved out by the world's finest artist and then woven into the pages of a very detailed, very dark romance.
Dark, jet-black hair, a jawline that could slice through metal, and killer eyes that served as an epitome of alluring, magnetic danger.
He exuded an icy aura, sipping his drink with the slow, deliberate grace of someone who knew exactly what kind of effect he had on a room.
He was fully aware that he was making heads twist until they cracked; he could hear the giggles and the muffled compliments from both genders, but it didn't faze him. It never did.
Nothing could catch his interest in a place like this. Not the noise, not the alcohol, and certainly not the glazing hype from his boys.
Except for one thing.
Only one thing was able to effortlessly and unconsciously hijack his attention that night: the precious little prey currently in a heated conversation with the waiter he had sent.
To be continued....