Miguel couldn't help but get lost, drawn deep into the boy's soft, astonishing beauty.
The effortless grace of his mannerisms and the way his body moved like poetry as he spoke to the waiter. Chef's kiss.
It had been a while since Miguel had truly indulged. For the past few weeks, his life had been a relentless grind from one mission to another, a blur of cold steel and adrenaline.
It wouldn't hurt to take a "toy" home for the night, to relieve the mounting stress and empty these heavy balls.
But as he watched, something stood out, making him more invested in this beauty than he'd ever been in a passing distraction.
From the boy's sharp facial expressions, Miguel could tell the proposal wasn't sitting well with this little prey.
That didn't surprise him at all; he'd seen a thousand variations of this tactic. First, they act disinterested, playing the long game, and then after one night under him, they never stop calling.
Or maybe the boy hasn't seen my face yet, Miguel thought. That would explain why he was still playing "Mr. Dignity," clinging to his "hard to get" persona.
Almost as if the universe was piping Miguel's thoughts across the room, the beautiful, coy prey averted his gaze, turning toward the booth until their eyes locked briefly.
A dangerous, predatory smirk flashed across Miguel's face. He leaned forward, fingers curling around his glass of whiskey as he took a slow, deliberate sip, his eyes never leaving the "toy."
He watched the boy lean over to the waiter, whisper something, and then the server gave a sharp nod and started back toward Miguel.
That's probably an answer on the way, Miguel thought with a surge of satisfaction.
But as the waiter grew closer, he saw the lines of disappointment etched into the man's face, and Miguel's brows creased slightly.
The waiter approached with measured, heavy steps, a look of genuine dread plastered on his face.
Of course, Miguel had promised him a massive tip, and it was becoming painfully clear that the tip was slipping away.
"Hmmm-mm!"
The waiter cleared his throat, standing not to his full height but hunched a few feet from Miguel.
Miguel didn't say a word.He tilted his head slightly in anticipation, waiting to hear the theatrical "I'm interested" he was so used to.
But what the waiter leaned over and whispered immediately soured his face, shattering his expectations into jagged pieces.
The shock that hit Miguel knew no bounds. He didn't even spare the waiter another glance; he couldn't afford to, because a cold sting of shame and embarrassment was engulfing him.
Meanwhile, the waiter trembled slightly, contemplating whether he should still ask for the tip. But seeing the way Miguel's jaw kept popping, his expression hardening into stone, the young man didn't need a book to read the room.
He gave a slight, stiff nod and retreated into the shadows.
Miguel leaned back slowly, a soft and icy exhale escaping those dangerous lips.
This. What he had just heard took him by surprise. In his entire existence on earth, nobody had ever said "no" to his barest minimum in such a manner.
He really had to wonder now: what and who was this boy? Was he truly different, or just a better actor than the rest? Because not only did this boy reject an irresistible offer, he...
Miguel shut his eyes, letting the waiter's words ring in his ear like a clap of thunder.
"He said you should give me your order instead... that... that you and your fellow malnourished, 'charity case looking' stray dogs look like you need it the most. All bills on him."
Thank God! Thank God I made this move discreetly, Miguel prayed inwardly.
He wouldn't have been able to handle the humiliation if his boys had heard. What would they think of him? He could only imagine.
His gaze swept around instinctively, only to see the boy was still looking at him.
But it wasn't with the usual shyness or the freaky naughtiness Miguel was used to receiving from twinks. It was a heavy grimace, a look of pure disgust, as if Miguel were covered in raw sewage.
The look made Miguel feel suddenly, strangely uneasy. He felt a sudden, desperate urge to impress, to look even hotter than he already was.
He caught himself noticing a stray strand of hair on his face, stylishly confirming his breath was only laced with expensive liquor and not actual filth.
He gulped down the rest of his whiskey and tugged his half-buttoned shirt into place. He didn't excuse himself; he didn't need to, and none of his boys dared to ask.
With quick, silent glances, they went back to their drinks, while Miguel embarked on a solo operation to break a stranger's defense for bruising his bloated ego.
He needed to get closer, to figure out why his heart had suddenly turned into a magnet, pulling him toward this rot-mouthed, tempting, seductive "toy."
The Collision
"The nerve of men," Fedora spat with venom, staring daggers across the room.
He had just run back from college because of a guy, looking for a sanctuary away from the drama, and here he was, facing another malfunctioning traffic light with a stagnant red sign.
"What does he take me for, a whore?" Fedora scoffed in mockery, glancing down at his outfit to see if he was giving off a "for sale" signal.
Then, as the man across the room stood to his full, imposing height, Fedora let out a lazy, frustrated grunt.
"Always the damn... hot ones," he remarked.
He took a quick, aggressive slurp from his glass, letting out a sharp "Eiiiishh!" sound as he licked the wine from his soft lips, briefly flashing his glistening white teeth.
Was the man hot? Yes. But he was rude, arrogant, and disrespectful. Hard pass.
It seems like the man is already leaving. Thank God, Fedora thought, turning back to the bartender.
The man behind the counter couldn't hide his concern anymore; Fedora was literally talking to himself aloud now, his movements jerky and unpredictable.
"Don't worry, I won't ask you to make another one," Fedora waved his wrist subtly.
The bartender breathed out, his hitched chest finally falling in relief.
Fedora clicked his tongue, shaking his head in a cocktail of disbelief and irritation.
Without warning, he reached out and grabbed a full, unopened bottle from the shelf.
"I'm going to take this instead, and head back to my friends," he announced.
He staggered away from the stool, wagging his hand dismissively at the bartender's wide eyes.
"Stop looking at me crazy. You're not my father. Fuck off!"
He spat the words between heavy breaths, making his careless way back toward the booth. But what came next was a solid, bone-deep collision that sent the world into sudden, jarring slow motion.
He had slammed into a wall of solid muscle. The bottle took flight, slipping from his fingers to arch through the air before it crashed against the floor in a spray of glass and spirits.
To be continued...