The low lighting against wood floors emanated warm glow that contrasted against the industrial style stone walls and metal beams along with the ceiling. The ceiling themselves reflected the wood of the background, though this time with old art deco tiling. As soon as someone would enter from downtown streets, they would feel out of time and out of place; this was a gem of a bygone era; the bartenders wore suspenders with tan shirts, their hair slicked back to fit with the 1920s styling as they set drinks onto the granite countertops of the deep red, sculpted bar. However, the jeans and patterned leggings of the waiting crowds and the LED screens that decorated the walls would break the illusion, reminding one that the lounge was only a mere replica of that era.
It didn't stop Tristan from feeling a little out of place. He eyed the menu with a furrowed brow, hoping to find something that would not break his wallet nor kill his stomach. His eyes took in the odd mixture of luxurious, exotic cocktails, ignoring the happy hour mix drinks.
Even though the idea of paying $18 for a cocktail made his wallet cringe, his wandering eye could not help but be entranced by the opulence.
He bit his lip, looking up to scan the crowd at the bar, then near the opened metal doors, hoping to catch a glimpse of warm dark skin and bright fiery curls. He was feeling a little closed off in here, and he turned his head way to ignore several appraising glances. He wouldn't mind flirting as a distraction while he waited, but perhaps his companion would be against it.
He chuckled, finally finding a distracting thought. He set the menu down, his hand reaching to touch the bandage on his neck, his eyes closing as he sighed, remembering Ira's lips pressed against his skin, teeth bearing down, almost breaking the surface but just doing enough to leave a mark; the same marks traveling down his skin. Each touch of his shirt against those marks giving a slight burn that made him shudder in pain and delight.
Would a reasonable person enjoy that bit of pain and possession, even from a beautiful woman like her? His hand moved to his lips as he remembered her kiss, voluptuous lips pressing hard against his, commanding him to open his mouth and accept her. A command he could not and would not disobey. He adored how she would look at him with those bright, bold eyes.
She wanted him. He chuckled, putting his hand down and toying with the menu again. Unlike his guardian, who seemed more intent to scold or mother him, Ira wanted him. She wanted him so much that her roses on his skin still burned more than the other bruises he gained that day.
He looked up, hearing several giggles from the bar, looking towards a group of women and men, eyes looking over him. He gave a small smile and shook his head as they motioned him to come over.
They weren't what he was waiting for.
They weren't who he wanted.
Unfortunately, she was late.
Ira gave him so much shit for his lack of punctuality last time that he was savoring the idea of using it against her; to tease for keeping him waiting. He should also play around with the memory of her writhing on that large leather couch, her body arching from his touch...while he had to go out in the night, alone, and fight the urge to throw his unsatisfied body into the sea to calm down. He bit his lip, sighing and shaking his head with a grunt, again looking out towards opened doors, "Sweetie, where are you?"
"Wow, didn't you grow up."
His eyes widened, the warmth on his face replaced with a frigid chill.
That voice.
Where the fuck did THAT come from?
His eyes darted from the doors to the bar, racing towards the backside of the lounge. His hand moved back up to scratch his cheek as his breath was caught in his throat. The world was closing in on him again, and no matter where he looked, he could not find the source of that whisper, of that sudden smell of cheap cigarettes mingling with rank cologne.
It was a smell strong enough to clog his throat; the scent clawing deep into his memory. It was a slurring hiss that made every single hair on the back of his neck stand.
Where did that come from?
It was unlikely for that bastard to be here; he was too cheap for this place...
Right?
...
He couldn't be here.
HE COULD NOT BE HERE!
Tristan scratched at his left cheek, hissing feeling sting from the cut he had left. He pulled his fingers back, looking down at the red that coated his nails. "Shit." He looked around again, his breathing slowly going back to normal, his pounding fast and hard in his chest.
No way was THAT man here.
He couldn't find beady black eyes leering at him as they did before, piercing through the door of the closet and into his chest.
He wasn't in that closet anymore.
He never saw eyes looking at him like that again.
Never again.
He took another long breath, slowly coming back up to Earth, away from that darkness. He was no longer there; it was just his imagination. Don't think about it, it doesn't matter anymore.
He was free.
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