He just needed a body. Anybody. He didn’t know if he wanted to fuck someone or kill them, but the longer he sat there drinking, the less it mattered. If his father had given him a target tonight, some deserving piece of shit who needed to suffer before he died, that would at least have given him an outlet. Asa without an outlet was dangerous. It made him more reckless than usual, and Asa was already pretty reckless.
“You look like a supervillain.”
Asa glanced over to see a man leaning against the bar in a white button down and black pants. He thought he was a server until he noticed the Chuck Taylors. He certainly didn’t look at him like a server. He looked at him with an interest that Asa found surprising given how far his mask had slipped.
The stranger wasn’t hot in the traditional sense. He wasn’t Asa’s type at all. Asa most often stuck to hot fuckboy types, who were only looking for a few good pics for social media and didn’t cry too hard when he didn’t stick around for breakfast.
This stranger looked very ordinary. No, not ordinary. He didn’t look varnished. There were no veneers, no spray tans, no colored contacts and bleached tips. He had an angular face, and plush lips, and soft curls that fell into his eyes when he tilted his head to look at Asa like he was now.
He was heroin-chic pretty. Rock star pretty. Just this side of too thin, but put him in a pair of leather pants and a fur-coat and girls would throw their panties at him before the house went dark. Somehow, it worked. The dark curls, thick brows, and whiskey-colored eyes framed by black-framed glasses just…worked.
Or maybe Asa just knew a victim when he saw one. He turned his bar stool towards the stranger, giving him an obvious once over, his lips curving into a smirk. “Oh, yeah. How so?”
The man took the question as an invitation, sliding onto the stool beside him, gesturing to the bartender before leaning in like he was going to tell him a secret. “Well, you’ve got this broody, sexy thing going on, but beneath that…you look like a predator.” He sat back, nodding to Asa’s hands, his voice losing the low throaty rasp he’d had seconds ago. “Also, you look like you’re about to strangle somebody with your bowtie.”
Asa glanced down to see he’d wrapped the ends of his tie around his fingers, fashioning it into a garrote of sorts. “Seems anybody with any sense would know to stay away from a predator.”
The man gave him a flash of perfect white teeth in a there and gone smile. “Well, to hear my mom tell it, I don’t have the sense God gave a turnip. But I’ll keep my eye on you. Just in case.”
Asa arched his brow. “Yeah, you do that.”
The bartender arrived, and they ordered their drinks. “You’re one of the Mulvaney twins, right?”
There it was. The problem with being a Mulvaney was that everybody knew you were a Mulvaney. “Yes. Asa. And you are?”
The man held out his hand. “Zane Scott.”
Asa took his hand, surprised when Zane squeezed it. His skin was warm and soft. Zane didn’t want to let go, but he did. “You have a reporter’s name, Zane Scott. Are you a reporter?”
The corner of the man’s mouth curled upward in a half-smile as he looked around the room. “A reporter? In here?”
Smartass.“Is that a yes?”
“No. Not yet, anyway. Right now, I’m just a blogger waiting for my big break.”
The bartender returned with their drinks, and Asa took a long swallow of his whiskey while he watched Zane tip the wine glass to his lips. Asa’s brain was a mess of booze and bad decisions. He couldn’t stop himself from picturing his hand around Zane’s delicate throat, forcing his cock between those perfect lips until he gagged.
But he was a reporter. That alone should have had him saying goodnight. The rules on reporters—and wannabe reporters—were very clear in the Mulvaney house. Don’t talk to reporters. Don’t react to reporters. And while his father had never uttered the words ‘don’t fuck reporters,’ Asa assumed it was implied.
Asa leaned in closer. “You look like Clark Kent in those glasses,” he said, pushing them up the bridge of Zane’s nose, noting the way his nostrils flared at Asa’s touch.
Asa’s dick noticed, too.
Once more, Zane gave him another blink-and-you’d-miss-it smile. “I wouldn’t look like Clark Kent in any incarnation of the DC universe. More like Lois Lane.”
Zane was right. He was no superhero type. But that was fine with Asa. He wasn’t looking for a fair fight. Once more, that urge to drag Zane off and make him his overtook him. Would he let him drag him off to the bathroom and fuck him in a stall? Would he go to his knees for Asa? Asa tamped down the urge to find out.
He met Zane’s gaze. “Superheroes are overrated. The villains are always more fun.”
“Villains like you?” Zane countered, taking another sip of his wine.
Asa reached out a hand and wrapped one of Zane’s curls around his finger. “Your hair is really pretty. All of you is really pretty. Even if you dress like a server.”
Zane didn’t move away, his expression bemused. “I can’t figure out whether you’re flirting with me or making fun of me.”
Asa grinned. “I’m propositioning you, Lois Lane. But I highly encourage you to say no.”
Zane leaned forward, bracing his elbow on the bar, his chin on his fist. “Oh? Interesting.”
