Sometimes the fire burns through the

rain.

Chris is a man drifting through life,

but after one bad choice too many, he
finds himself marooned in a gay resort in
sunny Spain, paying off a debt to a
London gangster.

He meets an enigmatic Irishman,

Ciaran, who is as charismatic as he is
elusive. Chris can’t tell if Ciaran is just
a mirage, a sunny ghost whipped up
under the Mediterranean sun. Passion
burns both men up, until the summer fires
fade and the rain comes.

Chris washes up in Ireland, and here,

in cold Dublin he must finally face the
truth—the people you love can break
you…or save you.

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Fire and Rain

Copyright © 2013 D.V. Patton

ISBN: 978-1-77111-482-0

Cover art by Ashley Waters

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Fire and Rain

By

D.V. Patton

Chapter One

Chris could feel the sweat pour down
the side of his torso as he shifted the
various boxes of books, newspapers,
and sundries against the wall. He wiped
his eyes with the back of his hand and
felt his eyes sting. There was a light
sheen of dust or sand that coated
everything in the shop and it seemed the
substance stuck to him like a second
skin.

This place was hot, and the air

conditioning was faulty. It rattled with a
horrible grating hum that vibrated
through the floor. “That’ll have to go.”
He chuckled to himself—nothing like
stating the obvious. Chris looked around,
pretty happy with his day’s work. The
stock was in, and the madness was about
to begin.

He had been in northern Spain for

three days now, but he had seen almost
nothing of the town of Torres. Between
emptying his meager life possessions
into the apartment overhead and
unpacking the stock sent from London,
Chris had barely a moment to breathe.

It was still not the high holiday season

in Torres. That kicked off in June, so he
figured he had the better part of a week
to get everything in shape. All of this
madness was good—it kept his mind
off…London. It kept him focused.

Chris looked around, satisfied with

the progress he had made. He decided to
explore the town a little, maybe try to
find a quiet restaurant or café and pick
up lunch.

Chapter Two

The afternoon sun caused him to squint
immediately and he cursed as he
realized he had lost his sunglasses
somewhere in the labyrinth of the shop.
He had seen an up-market shop on one of
the boulevards that sold brand-name
glasses, beside a couple of gay bars, and
though he balked at the thought of paying
a hundred or so euro for a pair of
shades, he doubted he would ever see
the return of his missing pair.

It was high afternoon and the Iberian

sun was reaching its apex, so the streets
were pretty much emptied. He needed a
shower, and some sun cream. The glare
of the sun was already tickling his skin,
and although he tanned rather than
burned, Chris wasn’t in the mood to risk
it.

Chris reached the shop and pushed the

glass door of the entrance. It was locked.
He did a double take, and realized the
interior of the shop was darkened. He
cussed, feeling like such a tourist, an
imposter.

“It’s closed,” a pleasant voice called

across to him in English. Chris turned to

seek out the source of this wisdom. It
was one of the waiting staff from the gay
bars adjacent to the store. Chris felt
pretty dumb, but years of practice helped
him brush it off. He didn’t allow his
embarrassment to show.

“You Scottish?” he asked the guy,

trying to place the accent. He got a
cheeky smile in return. “Irish, actually.”

Chris looked at the guy frankly

enough. The guy was twinky, thin, and
lithe, his bare arms and legs smooth. The
muscles in his arm were light and not
over developed, but they looked
powerful nonetheless.

He had that trendy emo type hair that

made him hard to age, and a piercing in
his lip and another in his eyebrow. The
guy did have beautiful eyes below his
blond bangs, blue eyes that sparkled
with a barely concealed mischief.
“Sangria?” he asked.

Chris hesitated, but chuckled. “Maybe

a quick coffee.”

“In this heat?”

His host offered him a seat that

overlooked the boulevard, and Chris felt
himself shepherded. Resistance was
futile. The guy disappeared into the
confines of the bar, and Chris fished out
his cigarettes. He had lasted about a day
in Spain before he started smoking

again. It seemed everyone smoked here,
and the evil little things were about half
the price of home. After the last six
months, he thought it was the least of his
worries. His host returned with his
coffee, and Chris sensed rather than saw
a slight look of distaste cross the man’s
face at the smoke rising lazily from the
ashtray. Chris chuckled inwardly. Oh
well, he thought, it was special while it
lasted.

Chapter Three

Except it seemed the moment would last
a little longer. The man had returned
with two cappuccinos. Chris was a little
taken back with the brazen nature of the
waiter. He guessed when in Rome…

“Mind if I join you?” asked the guy,

sitting down before Chris could reply.

Chris’ eyes narrowed as he became

suspicious of the invasion of his privacy.

“Your boss doesn’t mind?”

“Oh I don’t work here,” said the guy,

with the same mischievous twinkle in his
eyes.

“Right,” said Chris, a little uneasily.

“Why don’t we drink these coffees,

then go back to your place and fuck like
rabbits?”

Chris put his hands up. “Listen, mate,

I think—” he started before the man’s
smile stopped him. “You’re pulling my
leg, aren’t you?”

The guy reached over and squeezed

his knee once. “Course I am,” he said

with a smile that revealed his neat white
teeth. There was a little gap between his
two front teeth that Chris found cute.
“I’m Ciaran.”

Chris held out his hand, and

simultaneously a little metaphorical light
went off in his head. “You’re Mattie’s
nephew!”

“Ah, I’ve been unmasked! You’re

Chris, right? Sarah’s brother.”

“That’s right,” said Chris, smiling

back at the Irishman.

“I wasn’t expecting you until the

weekend.”

“It’s rained for three days in London. I

came early.”

“Don’t knock it. I give you three

weeks of sun, and you might miss the
rain.”

“I doubt it,” retorted Chris, unsure if

he was talking about the rain or the city
itself. He found himself staring at the
man a little too intensely, for Ciaran
coughed and dived into his elaborately
made cappuccino. Chris sipped on his,
working his way through the foamy head
to get at the coffee. He was a little taken
off guard by his attraction to the man, but
he suspected the bit of the bravado was
just for show. The guy still had that
sheen of inexperience, an exotic spice

that hung in the air.

“You like the coffee?”

“It’s great.”

“Liar,” said Ciaran smiling, and Chris

felt that flash of attraction again. Blond,
tanned, lithe, with that beautiful Irish lilt.
He stared deeply into the man’s blue
eyes, briefly but intensely, then held the
gaze, watching until a cute blush reached
the man’s cheeks. Behave, Chris warned
himself. “The coffee’s fine.”

“You English are so polite,” scoffed

Ciaran.

Chapter Four

“You been to Spain before?” asked
Ciaran, not bothering to wait for a reply.
“This will be my third summer here in
Torres. It’s a great place, man.”

Chris struggled to keep up with his

companion, with his bounding steps and
seemingly restless energy. Ciaran had
offered to take him to a decent place to
eat, and they cut through side streets like
a sword slashing through cloth. “It seems

lively, all right. I haven’t had a chance to
check the night life out.”

“Don’t worry, man, I’ll show you

around.”

“Great.”

“By the way, I’m not hitting on you,”

said Ciaran. “I’m not really into guys.”

Chris chuckled at that. “Not…really.”

Ciaran set off as suddenly as he had

stopped, but he looked back over his
shoulder, and smiled what Chris chose
to think was an enigmatic smile, though
in truth the man looked slightly
embarrassed. “Last summer I worked in

Torres’ busiest gay bar —I got enough
unwanted attention there to last a life
time,” he said, adding a smile to lessen
the edge of his comment. “It gets old real
fast.”

“I dig you,” said Chris, mentally

grimacing at his faux pas. How old was
he—fifteen? Still, it did plant a thought
in his head. “How old are you, Ciaran?”
he asked innocently enough, but instantly
regretted asking when he realized how
pervy it might sound.

“I’m twenty-one,” said Ciaran, “you?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“You don’t look it.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Ciaran smiled a big toothy smile.

“Take it whatever way you want! You
want to get some food? Donna’s due in
later.”

“Donna’s

here?”

asked

Chris,

surprised. Were they checking up on him
already? Donna was Mattie’s only
sister, and Chris trusted her about as far
as he could throw her. “Ah, don’t
worry,”

said

Ciaran

reassuringly.

“She’ll spend most of her time drinking
cocktails and hanging around loud camp
men.”

“That’s a relief,” said Chris. “Here,

food’s on me,” he added, flashing the

credit card he had been given for
expenses. “You wanna be careful with
that,” said Ciaran seriously. “The old
man will go through the receipts with a
fine tooth comb.”

“Fuck that,” said Chris, “might as

well get something out of this junket, not
as if I’m getting paid,” he finished. One
look at Ciaran’s face made him regret it
instantly. The man’s expression was
unreadable, but for a second, his pretty
eyes darkened, and with it, his whole
demeanor changed. Then, it was gone.
“This place is good,” he said finally.

Chapter Five

Chris realized it was going to take him a
while to acclimatize to the food. He
settled for a hard roll with a slice of
pork wedged in between the seemingly
stale bread. It was cursory, but strangely
tasty. Even nicer was the crushed iced
smoothie with a dash of lemon. It was
like an oasis in the sticky afternoon heat.
He sipped it like a milkshake, and
looked up guiltily at the sound he made.

“So what’s your story?” asked Ciaran

between mouthfuls of his burger. Chris
looked on with a sight sense of envy. He
looked like one of those high metabolism
types who could eat whatever he wanted
and still look like an Abercrombie
model. Chris worked hard for his body.
He looked at his pack of cigarettes on
the table. Well, pretty hard.

“Oh, I’m just here for three months,

opening this store for Mattie. He’s your
uncle, right?”

Ciaran nodded. “In the middle of a

recession, he’s a brave guy, my uncle.”

“I guess it’s aimed at ex-pats and

tourists. Just as well, really, I don’t

speak a word of Spanish.”

“Catalan.”

“Sorry?”

“You’re in Catalonia, my friend, not

Spain.”

“Point taken. What about you? Just

here for the summer?”

“Yeah, I was in Uni in Dublin. This is

my third summer here. I originally came
to learn the lingo.”

“Ah,” said Chris. It made sense now.

“I’ll help in the shop, show you round

the sights,” said Ciaran, “and try help
you learn a bit of the language, if you
want.”

“Thanks,” said Chris, giving the guy’s

knee a little squeeze. He thought Ciaran
pulled back a bit. He wasn’t sure that the
man even noticed. It was both an
unconscious and involuntary reaction.

“So three months here and three in

Barcelona?” asked Ciaran.

Chris nodded. “Then back to old

Blightly. Is Barcelona nice?”

“Yeah,” said Ciaran, “but you need to

keep your wits about you up there,” he
added pointedly. “Better head back to

the shop—I’d say Donna’s there by
now.”

“You’re not coming?”

“Nah,” he said. “She’ll want to give

you a pep talk, no doubt. You’re in the
apartment above the shop? I’ll come
around about eight, and we can go get
some dinner if you like.”

Ciaran didn’t wait for a reply. With a

theatrical gesture, he swept up his
phone, drank the last of his juice, and
slipped away. Chris watched him go.
Not really into guys, Chris thought to
himself— yeah, right.

Chapter Six

As it turned out, whether Ciaran liked
guys or not became a moot point. After a
fortnight working together, it became
obvious he certainly didn’t like Chris
that way, at least. Ciaran was a nice
guy, though he tended to keep Chris at
arm’s length at all times. Chris had
developed a bit of the lust for the guy,
but all his flirting had fallen flat. Chris
had reluctantly accepted that any urges
he had in Torres would not be settled at

that particular door.

Spain was hot. It seemed like an

obvious conclusion to come too, but
Chris hadn’t realized how hot. His skin
felt different, and he was careful not to
expose himself to the sun too much.
Chris’ body was in danger of becoming
a mish mash of freckles rather than the
mysterious all-over tan that covered his
co-worker, yet another manifestation of
his wasted lust. Chris spent an
irritatingly long time in front of mirror
applying a spray on sun protector, whilst
Ciaran, though with a fairer complexion,
bronzed like an Adonis. Chris spent an
unhealthy amount of time examining his
new friend’s perfect skin, his smooth

athlete’s shoulders, and a tight butt that
looked like it was sculpted by a
renaissance artist.

Chapter Seven

Within a week of being in Torres, he
became suspicious of his business
arrangement with Mattie. After three
weeks, he was worried. The money
rolled in, and the shop was doing well,
its patois of faux sixties clothes and tatty
memorabilia seemingly flying out the
door. But it didn’t take too much of a
brain to realize it was doing too well.
The money rolled in, usually when
Mattie’s own nephew Ciaran was on the

floor, and Chris was off either at the
beach or sightseeing in Barcelona.

Chris said nothing. He never paid rent

or bills, so all the money that came was
profit. He counted the money, filed the
receipts, and deposited it into the bank.
And all around him life went on in the
sweltering resort of Torres.

Donna came down for a weekend

seemingly to help in the shop, though in
truth she seemed a hell of a lot more
interested in spending time on Torres’
many sandy beaches and supping on its
multicolored cocktails.

“Well, everything seems good,” said

Donna, making no pretense at any real

interest in the business. “You know the
deal anyhow. Count the money, log it,
and keep receipts. Easy money.”

She really did have a grating voice,

Chris realized. Mattie’s sister looked
nothing like the boss. Her skin was
leathery from the harsh sun down south,
and her face was heaped in mascara.
Donna reeked of a mixture of expensive
perfume and cheap Spanish cigarettes. A
plume of tobacco smoke followed her
wherever she went. In many ways she
was a walking advertisement for not
getting too much sun. She had only come
up to Torres twice since he had been
here, and Ciaran assured him that the
visits would become even less frequent.

Of course, Donna was oblivious to it.

She was a real East End girl, more at
home among the shadier ex-pats down
around

Marbella.

She

was

also

incredibly patronizing. “Look at you.
Surrounded by the med, hot weather,
fuck a few beautiful guys, and getting
paid. Most guys would give their right
arm for a deal like that. Easy money, I
tell ya.”

Chris couldn’t bite his tongue.

“Except I won’t see any money, Donna.”

“Don’t get greedy, Chris. That’s what

got you in this mess. Its lucky you’re
family or you would have been seriously
fucked.”

The way she said fuck, made it sound

like fooook. Still, Chris shut his mouth,
because what she said was true. He had
gotten himself in this mess. Every time
he’d screwed up, Chris found a way to
squirm out of it, but not this time—this
was different. Chris decided not to
dwell on it too much. Donna muttered on
about this and that, but mainly he waited
for her to actually leave. She said a lot,
but the gist was don’t steal any money if
you know what is good for you.

”Three months here, three months in

Barcelona,” he said as she was leaving.
“I won’t mess it up.”

Donna looked at him strangely when

he said that. “Well, we can worry about

that later. Just deposit the money and
send the receipts, and everything will be
cushy.”

It was only after she left that Chris

found himself wondering about that
strange blank look, when he had
mentioned his agreed-upon six-month
stay in Spain. He hadn’t liked that look
one bit. It was like she had no idea what
he was talking about.

Chapter Eight

“So there you are,” said Chris, when he
saw that his coworker had finally
appeared. “You missed Donna.”

“Damn,” said Ciaran, trying to keep

the grin from his face.

“She’s your family!” protested Chris.

“Ah, relax, man, you’re family now

too!”

“Fuck you,” said Chris smiling.

“Seriously, man, you need to chill out.

I’m not here to spy on you. I’m just a
tourist too.”

Chris must have looked at him askew,

because Ciaran added “C’mon, why
don’t we hang out tonight. Get some eats,
hit the clubs?”

Chapter Nine

Friday night was busy in the town, much
more so than weekdays. The restaurants
and seafront cafes were all packed, but
Ciaran brought him to a nice back street
eatery and got a table right out front.
Chris smoked the whole time, much to
Ciaran’s evident chagrin. But seeing as
his amorous approaches had failed,
Chris had long since decided to be
himself around the Irishman.

“You like sea food?”

Chris balked a little. “I can try it,” he

said noncommittally.

“We can go somewhere else if you

prefer.”

“Nah it’s good, I should try to eat

healthy while I’m here.”

Ciaran chuckled. “Yeah, you look

really unhealthy, man.”

Chris pretended not to notice the

comment, nor read too much into it. “I
appreciate you hanging out with me, but
don’t let me mess up your night.”

“Nah, Mattie told me to look after

you.”

They sat at the table, Ciaran absently

chewing his nail and staring at the
various array of people who walked by.
Chris smoked another cigarette, and
drank his beer too quickly. They sat in a
growing

silence,

not

quite

uncomfortable, but not the easy silence
of friends. Chris thought of something to
ask. “How come you sound Irish, and
Mattie’s a real Londoner?”

Ciaran’s eyes stayed neutral. “I am

Irish. I just spent holidays in London
when I was a kid.”

Chris got the impression that Ciaran

was a little uncomfortable with personal
questions, so he let it drop. In truth, he
was just making small talk.

“How come you haven’t picked up a

hombre here?” asked Ciaran. “It’s full of
hot, rich, gay men.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“So…”

“You’re a nosy one aren’t you?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I just wanted to get to

know you. I’m like that…sorry,”
repeated Ciaran.

Chris couldn’t tell if he was being

shy, or very subtly mocking him. “No,
it’s fine. No reason really,” he said. He
didn’t add that he had a slight man crush
on his dinner companion, though it was
based more on superficial outer, not
inner, beauty.

He creaked back in his seat and

studied

his

companion.

He

was

beginning to wonder if Ciaran was a bit
of a closet case, but that didn’t really
make sense. The guy was in Torres, the
premier gay resort in Spain, and had
spent last summer working in a gay bar
—hardly repressed territory.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

“I bet you do,” laughed Chris.

“I’m not a closet case. Sorry.”

“Why do you keep saying sorry?”

asked Chris, and this time Ciaran
laughed.

“I don’t have a girlfriend to really ram

home my point!”

He wasn’t sure, but it did feel like

they were finally relaxing in each other’s
company. Beer really was a wonder
drug. It was stupid, but in many ways
this felt more like a date than two
coworkers hanging out. He felt he was
learning more about Ciaran tonight than
he had in the whole three weeks he had
been here.

There was something about the guy,

though, some deep waters. The easy
thing was to brush over it, but Chris
found himself hesitating, and he wasn’t
sure why. “Honestly, Ciaran, sexuality is
like water to me, forever changing
shape. As long as you’re happy with
yourself, everything else is just a label
people put on things,” he said. He
wasn’t sure where that had come from,
or even if he had overstepped the mark
somehow.

His dinner companion’s mood seemed

to perk up. “That’s a really cool way of
looking at things, Chris. So how’d you
end up here?”

“I dunno, man, midlife crisis maybe?”

“You’re not old enough!”

“I’m twenty-eight.”

“That’s not old.”

“Says the twenty-one year old! What

can I say? A failed business, a big failed
relationship, debts… and living off the
so called charity of your uncle.”

“I know my uncle well enough to

know he doesn’t do charity,” said Ciaran
evenly.

“It’s a change of scenery, then.”

Ciaran smiled. “C’mon,” he said, “Eat

up. I’ve a plan!”

Chapter Ten

The lights of the club seemed to be in
perfect synchronization with the DJ’s
house beat. Chris was drenched in
sweat, due more to the body heat trapped
in the building than to any real exertion.
A rare genetic condition meant he was
born with no sense of rhythm, so he
escaped to a murky corner of the club,
beer in hand.

The place was heaving, with a healthy

show of gorgeous men, a lot of whom
were bare-chested and definitely on the
hunt. It had the feel of a meat market.
The male dancers bore more than a
passing resemblance to extras from the
TV show Spartacus. Chris was in good
shape, but Torres took perfection to a
new level.

He saw Ciaran through a gap in the

throng of dancers. The lights seemed
drawn to him, a perfect ball of light in
the whirling maelstrom of the club. He
moved slowly, rhythmically, his hips
almost controlling the music. Chris
couldn’t keep his eyes off the dance as
Ciaran’s head swayed left and right, his
sweaty blond hair almost glistening

under the strobe lights. He noticed he
wasn’t the only guy staring at him.

Ciaran was magnetic, and other

people in the club sensed it. He was
black hole that drew everyone towards
him. Chris nearly laughed, that guy was
so out of his league.

He went outside for a smoke, and the

air seemed to go his head. It was warm
and humid, and Chris thought it might
rain. He looked down the street and saw
the electronic thermometer above the
chemist read thirty-two. He nearly
laughed. It was past two. Chris felt his
stomach lurch. Spanish beer was strong,
and now that he was outside, he realized
that he was drunk.

He looked longingly back at the doors

of the club, thinking of Ciaran in the
middle of the dance floor. He stubbed
out his cigarette, and with a resigned
sigh, he headed home.

Less than five hundred yards later, the

skies opened. It was nothing like
home—the heat was awesome, and the
power of the rain had him drenched
within a few feet. Chris felt like a tourist
and laughed like a crazy person. “Man,
I’m drunk,” he said to the empty street.

He heard wet footsteps running up the

street, and turned to see Ciaran catching
up with him. If he had been sober he
might have been worried about how he

had bailed without saying goodbye, or
even wondered why Ciaran was here
and had noticed him missing. After all,
he had barely been gone five minutes.
Instead he looked at the Irishman
groggily and said “Sup?”

Ciaran

burst

out

laughing.

“Lightweight!”

“It’s raining,” Chris said happily.

Ciaran smiled and slid his arm around
Chris’ waist. “C’mon, big man, let’s get
you home.”

“Oh, you don’t have to.”

“Do you know where you are?”

“Spain,” said Chris in that groggy

voice that caused Ciaran to laugh again.
He wasn’t quite as drunk as he sounded,
and he figured Ciaran was pretty drunk,
and didn’t realize it. “You staying with
me?”

“On the couch, big man …on the

couch.”

Chapter Eleven

Sometime in the night, Chris woke up
with a mouth as dry as Mars and a
bladder that physically hurt. His eyes
felt leaden, so he tried to estimate his
position to the WC. He ambled around in
the darkness until he managed to stub his
foot on the edge of the bed, whilst
simultaneously standing on what felt like
a set of keys. “Fuck.”

He had fallen asleep in his shorts,

though he couldn’t remember why. He
always slept nude, and now the fabric
clung to his sweaty buttocks and slick
balls. Sexy, thought Chris, lost in that
strange netherworld of walking and
sleep. He positioned himself over the
toilet, and released his cock. His urine
flowed from him in a relieving wave,
and Chris felt himself almost falling
asleep again where he stood.

“Chris?” a voice said from behind

him, causing him to almost jump in
shock.

“Fuck, man, you nearly gave me a

heart attack!”

“Forgot you weren’t alone huh?”

asked Ciaran sleepily. Chris turned, and
saw Ciaran standing in the doorframe
dressed only in his white designer
shorts. The shadows on his torso
accentuated the shapes hidden under the
white cotton. A primal longing swept
over Chris, softly, like a wave. “I woke
you?” he asked.

“Nah, I can’t sleep on that couch. It’s

a torture device.”

“Come crash with me if you want,” he

said automatically.

“Hmm,” said Ciaran. “Maybe that’s

not a great idea.”

Chris had become fully awake. He

wasn’t sure what was going on, but he
sure did sense when someone wanted to
be convinced. “It’ll be grand, mate, I’m
a good guy.”

“I know.”

“C’mon, then,” said Chris, brushing

by him. He didn’t offer his hand or look
back over his shoulder. He kept it as
casual as he could. Chris heard the
sound of bare footsteps following him in
the darkness. The bedroom was cool, the
steady flow of the air conditioner the
only companion to the sound of the
men’s breathing.

Chris lay down on the mattress and

Ciaran lay beside him. Chris took

control, spooning behind him, and gently
placing his un-erect cock against the
younger man’s firm, tense buttocks.
“G’night Ciaran.”

“Good

night,

Chris,”

a

voice

whispered, so close but so far away.

Some untold time later, he heard his

name called. Chris opened his eyes.
“Huh?”

“Chris.”

“What?”

“You’re…grinding against me.”

Chris resisted the urge to chuckle. His

erect cock was pressed right against the
crack of Ciaran’s buttocks. “Sorry, do
you want me to turn around? You can
hold me.”

“Eh… I don’t think that’s gonna help.”

Chis placed his hand on Ciaran’s bare

and very tense thigh. He didn’t know
how he knew, but he seemed to
intuitively understand that the young man
both wanted to bolt from here, and
didn’t. “I’d really love to fuck you,
Ciaran.”

“I don’t do that.”

Chris continued to softly message that

thigh, his fingers gently reassuring.

Ciaran didn’t move. “Can I touch you?”

No answer. His fingers continued

their dance, moving from the top of the
thighs, then between them, then up the
ridge of his legs, until he reached the
tight cotton of Ciaran’s underpants.

He began to message his friend’s

balls, and this time Ciaran let out a sigh
like the purr of a kitten. His fingers
traced the length of Ciaran’s cock until
he reached the tip, and with a flick he
released it from its imprisonment. Chris’
fingers gently messaged the tip of
Ciaran’s uncircumcised cock.

The

flaccid skin messaged his head ever so
gently.

He pulled his own cock free, a little

surprised by the slight tinge of pain at
how hard he was. Ciaran tensed. “Chris,
I…”

“Shhh…I know.”

Chris worked his underpants down

past his ankle until he was completely
naked and free of constraint. In one
movement he thrust his cock over the
band of Ciaran’s underpants and slid his
shaft between the trapped thighs.
Ciaran’s balls lay either side of his
cock. Ciaran’s ass was almost damp
with sweat. His hand began to knead
Ciaran’s erect nipple, and as the young
man sighed, he gently blew hot air on the
crook of his neck and shoulder.

Chris’ hips seemed to have taken on a

life of their own, and his buttocks tensed
and relaxed as his shaft slid between
those tight thighs. Ciaran tensed and
relaxed in rhythm with him. He
abandoned his nipples and finally
grasped Ciaran’s erect cock for the first
time. His hand began to slowly pump,
until he found a steady rhythm.

Chris’ hand slid up and down

Ciaran’s wet cock, his own shaft firmly
pressing Ciaran’s balls, those tight
athletic thighs relaxing and tensing.
When he felt Ciaran’s breath quicken, he
let himself go. He pulled back slightly
and a feeling of bliss filled his tense

muscles. Cum pumped from him and
covered Ciaran’s asshole and balls with
a beautiful warm stickiness. Ciaran
sighed audibly as his own cock began to
pump an impressive flow of semen that
soaked both his hand and the bed sheets.

They lay in the darkness, breathing

deeply, neither man speaking or moving,
and the smell of their sex filled the
room. Chris waited until he was sure
Ciaran had drifted off before he let
himself fall to sleep. When Chris woke
in the morning, a hangover clouding his
thoughts, he found Ciaran gone.

Chapter Twelve

A week, then two, passed since their
drunken tryst, and no opportunity to
explore it further had revealed itself.
Ciaran was definitely a lot more relaxed
around him, chatting and bantering with
a casual ease, but he disappeared after
each shift. There were no offers to
socialize—perhaps the danger were too
apparent. The slippery sweaty path to Oz
was left untraveled.

Ciaran had reverted back to type.

Chris had originally thought Ciaran had
a nervous disposition hidden underneath
the veneer of his confidence, and now he
was certain of it.

Chris didn’t mind, but he had come to

the conclusion that what had happened
between them was a drunken one-off. It
was a shame really—they could have
had some real fun had Ciaran been
willing. Except it seemed he wasn’t.
Chris never lost sight of the fact that he
was a stranger in a foreign land, and in
many ways Ciaran was his guide and
only friend.

Chapter Thirteen

Ciaran was off on a Monday, and he
didn’t make an appearance all that day.
It was a very sheepish and worse-for-
wear Irishman that finally appeared at
the shop the following day, well past his
shift time.

Chris

found

himself

uncharacteristically

moody

as

he

watched the man saunter into the shop.
Ciaran’s hair was lumpy and unkempt,

and he reeked of stale booze. It looked
like the party had started on Saturday
and never ended.

“Hey,” said Chris.

“Hey, man,” said Ciaran. His usual

piercing blue eyes seemed dull, slightly
bloodshot and out of focus. “Sorry I’m
late.” He wore a new variant on his
smile, one part shy, and two parts
nonchalant.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Chris.

“It’s not as if we’re busy.”

“We’re never busy,” said Ciaran.

“You want to go and clean up?” said

Chris.

Ciaran smiled wanly. “I might lay my

head down for an hour all right.”

“Mi casa es su casa.”

The young man smiled at that. “You

mean that?”

“Of course,” said Chris, a little stiffly.

“Your uncle owns this place, anyhow.”

Ciaran didn’t comment on that, but

instead looked at Chris quietly for what
felt like a long time, long enough for him
to feel a little uncomfortable, before
finally, he nodded. “You’re a good guy,
Chris. I knew it from the moment I saw

you.”

Before Chris could reply, Ciaran

disappeared into the darkness of the hall
and up the stairs into the apartment
above. The footsteps echoed through the
small shop, and he heard the click of the
apartment door as it closed.

Chapter Fourteen

Chris heard footsteps moving around
above him, but his mind was already
wondering. He looked at his watch. It

was well past one, twelve in London—
time for his business call with Matthew
Doyle,

aka

Mattie—a

crook,

a

moneylender and now, his boss too.

Chris had ended up in his circle after

his sister had married a cousin of
Mattie’s. Worse still, a long twisting
road had meant he had ended up owing
the man a lot of money. His search for
easy credit to save a business in decline
had led to financial ruin. His time in
Spain was part payment of the debt—
that, and for not asking too many
questions.

Chris didn’t want Ciaran to overhear

him, so he closed the shop and headed
for a nearby café. His Spanish was still

atrocious, but Torres was a tourist trap,
and most people spoke at least passing
English. He found he could get by just
fine as he tried to pick up even a little
rudimentary Spanish. He ended up
mumbling in a horrible patois of Catalan
and Spanish. He ordered coffee, and
finally overcame his dread and quick-
dialed Mattie’s number. The phone was
picked up after two rings.

“Chris!” said Mattie in an exaggerated

tone he sometimes put on. He loved
mocking people, mainly because he
knew they wouldn’t bite back. Why he
was feigning surprise at Chris calling,
only Mattie knew.

“Hi, Mattie.”

“How’s business?”

Chris felt a light sheen of sweat break

out under his armpits. “It’s good. I’ve
been sending the cash sheets as agreed,
and depositing the money.”

“Relax, Chris. I know you’re not a

stupid boy. Have you seen Donna?”

“Sure, she’s up most weeks,” he lied.

Donna was meant to oversee things, but
he never saw her anymore. It was a
situation he was hoping would continue.

“Good, good, and how’s my boy

Ciaran. ‘E behaving himself?”

“Yeah, he’s been a great help.”

“What with you not speaking the lingo

and all.”

Careful, Mattie, thought Chris, your

East End is showing, fella. Mattie liked
to make a big deal about how he was
second generation Irish, but as far as
Chris was concerned, if it looked like a
cockney, and talked like a cockney…He
realized he’d better say something.
“That’s it.”

Silence on the line. “Mattie?” asked

Chris, wondering what was going on
now.

“You’re not bumming him, are ya?”

“No, Mattie.”

“Cus he’s as bent as a copper

penny…and not too bright either, but
he’s my sister’s boy. So he’s off limits
to you. Understand?”

“Of course, Mattie…I know that.”

“Good…good.”

Mattie carped on for a while, about

the weather, football and other inane
small talk. He didn’t mention the second
shop

in

Barcelona,

and

more

importantly, he didn’t mention any end
date for Chris’ time in Spain. Chris was
so delighted to get him off the phone he
didn’t even think to ask.

And with that, Mattie was gone from

his life another week. He hated dealing
with the man, but what choice did he
have? Mattie Forde was not a man you
wanted to mess with at the best of times,
even less so when you found yourself in
debt to him.

Chapter Fifteen

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Chris looked up, shaken out of his

thoughts by the familiar lilt of the voice
that addressed him. He was met by the
steady stare of a well-groomed man in
his forties. The Irish accent had thrown
him, something very familiar in what
could be an alien place. “I’m sorry?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to intrude.”

He was a good-looking man in his

way, but there was no mistaking the not-
so-subtle look on the man’s face. He had
already gotten used to seeing it in
Torres. “No, sorry I was miles away.”

“Business call? I make enough of them

to tell them a mile away,” he said.

Chris smiled noncommittally.

“You run that tourist shop on Carrer

del Bonaire.”

“Indeed,”

said

Chris

slightly

confused.

“And that was your boss on the phone.

Sorry, I was bored, playing people-

spotting. Too much time spent at
airports.”

Chris looked at the cut of the man’s

clothes,

at

his

neat

pepper-gray

hairstyle. He liked when men let
themselves go grey. This guy could have
got away with a bit of coloring, but
didn’t. It was classy in its own way. It
was hard to age him because of his
immaculate grooming, but at the very
least Chris figured he wasn’t a crazy
person. “It was my boss.”

“I was going to ask you if you would

like to join me for a meal,” he said,
amiably enough. The way he was
addressed led Chris to believe that this
man was used to being obeyed.

“Oh, sorry.”

“That a yes or a no?”

“Ah,” said Chris, a light smile playing

on his lips. “I’m—” he almost said
attached, but stopped himself, “all
manned out right now.”

“All manned out,” said the stranger. “I

haven’t heard that one before. Especially
not in Torres,” he added ruefully. “I’m
Peter, by the way.”

“Chris,” he replied. Peter waited to

be offered a seat and Chris finally
acquiesced.

“I’d say business is tough over here,”

said Peter.

“Not

this

one,”

Chris

said

automatically, instantly realizing that
sounded bad.

As if in confirmation, the man looked

at him a little askew.

”It’s not mine,” Chris added. “The

business, I mean. I’m just helping a
friend out.”

Peter smiled. “A working holiday.”

“Exactly,” said Chris, finding the

situation a little bit odd. Truth be told,
he was slightly enamored with the

thought of a probably wealthy man
hitting on him. His ego had taken enough
knocks in the last year. “What do you
do?”

“I hold the license for a well-known

coffee house back in Ireland.”

“Really?” said Chris surprised. “I ran

a coffee and tea import business back in
London—emphasis on the past tense.”

“Ah, it didn’t work out?”

“Horrendous rent, or at least that’s

what I tell people. Shame I didn’t meet
you last year.”

“Indeed, maybe you wouldn’t have

been manned out,” said Peter. “Are you
sure I can’t convince you to join me for
lunch?”

“Thank you, maybe another time,”

said Chris. Peter reached into his pocket
and pulled out a business card.

“If you’re ever in Dublin and want

someone to show you around, give me a
call. Or, less exciting, if you ever feel
like getting back into the business, I’m
always looking for good people.”

“Thank you,” said Chris thoughtfully,

“I might take you up on that.”

Chapter Sixteen

Chris said his goodbyes to his coffee
companion,

after

finding

himself

promising to ring the man the next time
he was in Dublin. Chris’ sister had
moved to Ireland the year before, and he
hadn’t visited yet.

Chris sat looking at the laptop screen,

a blank expression on his face. It was
past three, and the shop would stay
closed for the traditional siesta between

half one and five.

All was quiet from above, and he

figured Ciaran would sleep most of the
afternoon through. Chris toyed with the
idea of going out to get something to eat,
or hitting the beach for an hour, but he
found his mind preoccupied with his
squatter.

Ciaran had his own apartment on the

edge of Torres, a place Chris hadn’t
seen, but he didn’t doubt it was of a far
finer standard than this meager abode.
Yet not for the first time he was lying
upstairs. It was like he came here to
crash during the day.

Chris walked to the shop door, flicked

the lock, and killed the lights. He went
upstairs.

Chapter Seventeen

The apartment was airily bright, and the
wind blew off the Mediterranean in a
cooling dry wave. It really was a nice
day for the beach, thought Chris, but his
mind was preoccupied. Ciaran was
nowhere to be seen, so he glanced into
the bedroom, and sure enough, the guy
was crashed on his bed. This was getting
a little bit strange.

Ciaran had this instant likeability, but

it was a little weird that he was here a
lot now, especially after what had
happened. Did he want to do it again?
Chris thought on it. Do I?

An involuntary grin spread onto

Chris’ face. Who was he kidding? He
jerked off thinking about Ciaran all the
time.

Chris went to the kitchen and began

preparing an English breakfast. It was a
devil getting the right ingredients, but
luckily for him, there was a shop off
Casa that sold a lot of the ingredients
from Blighty. Heinz Ketchup—his mouth
watered at the imagined taste. Sausages
were different here, but the Catalan
variety was a welcome surprise. Chris

felt his stomach growl as he worked
through the minutiae of preparing the
great English Breakfast, a mythical beast
—

He looked up and found Ciaran

staring into the kitchen at him. He nearly
jumped—the guy moved like a ninja
when he wanted. “Couldn’t sleep, huh?”

Ciaran

nodded

his

head

in

confirmation. If he felt things hadn’t felt
awkward between them, the sight of
Ciaran standing in the doorway dressed
only in a pair of crisp white shorts
confirmed it. He was very lithe, slim as
a surfer and smooth from head to toe,
except for a puff of dirty blond hair

under his armpits. He balanced himself
in the doorframe and stretched with his
arms above his head. Chris saw the
outline in his shorts. He knew he was
staring at Ciaran’s crotch, and it took a
surprising amount of effort to look away.

“You off to Barca tonight?” he asked,

all the time staring at every other part of
that body. Ciaran’s abdomen stretched
as he twisted in the doorframe. Chris
found himself sweating again.

“Sure,” said Ciaran, “come if you

want.”

“Ah, I don’t speak much Spanish—it

would be awkward with your friends.”

“I’m going to the Camp Nou,” he

replied, indicating Barcelona FC’s home
ground.

“Football? Well…”

“Don’t worry, I’ll look after you, big

fella.”

Chris was chuffed, actually.

“The smell of food woke me up. You

do that deliberately?”

“What? No…Just an old habit.”

“For when a guy stayed over?”

“Not just any guy,” said Chris, before

realizing what he said could sound
ambiguous.

“Chris—”

“No offence Cee, but don’t flatter

yourself” he said. It seemed to be the
right thing to say. Ciaran visibly relaxed,
and any threatened tension was gone
from them. Chris was finding it very
hard to stop staring at Ciaran’s body.
Surely it was obvious by now.

“You always know what to say—I

wish had some of that confidence,” said
Ciaran thoughtfully.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No…no, I’m not. You can put

things…at ease.”

His stomach rumbled audibly, and

Chris smiled. “It’ll be ready soon.”

“You used to make this for someone?”

“Yeah.”

“Back in England?”

“You’re a nosy fucker, aren’t you?”

“You don’t have to say. I didn’t

realize it was a thing.”

“Oh it doesn’t matter. I had a feeling

you’d appreciate the gesture. I just love

making food—there’s something very
honest about it.”

“Heavy food in this kind of heat…it’s

only the tourists eat that stuff.”

“You obviously don’t, with a body

like that!” said Chris without thinking.

“Do you want me to put a shirt on?”

“No,” said Chris quickly, before

changing the topic back. “Sometimes I
get homesick.”

“After six weeks!” mocked Ciaran.

“I’ve been gone from home a lot

longer than that,” said Chris, surprising

himself.

“I suppose you want to talk about…

it.”

Chris shook his head. “Do you?”

“I suppose you’ve done that with lots

of guys.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“No…I mean…I haven’t.”

“I guessed as much,” said Chris but

for a second, he got a glance of some
fleeting emotion on Ciaran’s face. “It’s
not a big deal, honestly.” Chris
instinctively reached across and brushed

his hand.

Ciaran seemed uncomfortable with

that, but in fairness, he didn’t draw
away.

“Eat your food, babe,” said Chris

softly. He sensed a subtle change in how
Ciaran was looking at him. His words
might say one thing, but his eyes said
another.

Chapter Eighteen

“Can I use the shower?” asked Ciaran
after they ate. “I smell.”

“Of course,” said Chris. “You don’t

have to ask.”

Their eyes met across the table. “I

don’t?”

Without missing a breath, Chris asked.

“You want me to come with?”

Ciaran didn’t speak. Instead he sat on

the couch opposite him and began to
remove his socks. He pulled his shorts
down to his knees and kicked them off.
Chris watched every action, every inch
of bare skin. Ciaran had beautiful
nipples, a sailboard flat stomach. As his
shorts were drawn down, his half erect
cock was finally revealed to the light. It
was pale compared to the rest of him,
and thicker than Chris had thought. He
had the same soft downy hair that Chris
had glanced under his armpits.

“You’re beautiful.”

A pair of piercing blue eyes looked at

him. “You think? I know I’m too skinny.”

Chris thought the moment might pass,

but Ciaran spoke again. “Will you suck
my cock?”

He didn’t hesitate. In two footsteps,

he was kneeling between those lithe
legs. One lick of his tongue, running
along the length of Ciaran’s shaft, drove
the member to its full six inches. It lay
tight against Ciaran’s belly button. It was
the first time he had seen him in the light.
The down of peppery pubic hair that
ringed him seemed to glisten with
moisture.

Chris pulled off his own shirt, then

roughly kicked off his shorts. His own
cock stood out from his own patch of
neatly clipped and groomed pubic hair.

Maybe it was the heat, or maybe it was
Ciaran, but again his penis throbbed
almost painfully.

“Wow,” said Ciaran.

Chris kneeled between the man’s legs

and enveloped his cock with ease. He
slicked up the shaft and began to tense
his neck muscles as his mouth slid up
and down the cock. He felt its shape
with his mouth, the throbbing veins.
Chris tasted the salty precum. He
glanced up and saw the young man had
closed his eyes. He looked like he was
in ecstasy—his whole body seemed to
be shaking slightly.

Chris slid the cock down his throat,

and Ciaran panted audibly. He slid back
up the shaft trying to delay the orgasm.
Instead his tongue went to work, licking
the man’s cock. He slipped Ciaran’s
balls into his mouth and gently kneaded
them with his tongue.

Releasing them, he slid his own cock

down the ridge between Ciaran’s
buttocks, and reached his asshole. It took
an amazing amount of willpower not to
slide his own cock against that sweaty
moist hole, but instead he squatted,
balancing delicately on the balls of his
feet, until his face was mere inches from
the source of his lust. His tongue gently
caressed that manhole instead, and the
soft pinky ridges tensed and released

with desire.

He felt Ciaran’s hands gently touch

his face, drawing him back to his cock.
It, too, shook gently, his bulbous head
felt red hot. Chris could sense he was
close, but he had one last trick to play.

He enveloped Ciaran’s cock and slid

down the full length of his shaft, ignoring
the gagging feeling as his trapped toy
disappeared deep in his throat. Ciaran’s
hands clamped him in place, in perfect
position. He gently slipped one of
Ciaran’s calves onto his shoulder,
exposing his hole. Chris pressed his
index finger against Ciaran’s asshole,
and then pushed deeper and deeper into
that fleshy darkness.

Ciaran cried out. Resistance suddenly

failed and as the muscles inside Ciaran’s
ass relaxed, his finger disappeared up to
the knuckle. Chris’ mouth filled with
semen. There was a torrent, so much that
some of the seed caused him to gag
reflexively as his mouth filled with cum.

He placed his knee either side of

Ciaran’s midriff and massaged his shaft.
It didn’t take long for him to climax. His
cum covered Ciaran’s face in three
distinctive pearl-colored paths. He
wondered if he’d gone too far, but
Ciaran’s tongue shyly licked the cum.
Those blue eyes stared at him. “Now
there’s some of you in me, too,” said

Ciaran.

Chapter Nineteen

Chris was very uncomfortable driving in
Spain, but seeing as Ciaran had no
driver’s license, he had no choice but to
brave the left-hand-drive cars. As it
turned out, he got used to it quite
quickly. Sharp turns were a little bit of a
problem

and

he

tended

to

overcompensate, and he suffered minor
perception problems when faced with a
myriad

of

interconnections

and

freeways. At least they were not going

too far.

August had started and already the

temperature was rising accordingly.
They had rented a convertible and were
driving down the coast with the hood
down, a luxury barely afforded back in
the UK. The skies above were
completely blue, with not a fluffy white
cloud in sight.

“Take a turn here,” said Ciaran

squeezing his arm. Chris nodded, and
began to bank right.

“Is it far?”

“No, we just to keep an eye out…and

there you go.”

Chris had to bank suddenly left, and

got a blare of a horn from a car he hadn’t
seen come up behind them. He lifted his
hand sheepishly, but gently accelerated
down the dirt road that led to the ocean.
“Have you been here before?” he asked.

Ciaran just shrugged. “Maybe,” he

said with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
“Hopefully it won’t be too busy!”

The suspension in the car began to

rattle as the dirt road became steadily
rougher. A plume of dust rose up behind
them, and Chris began to fear the low-
riding car getting wedged somewhere
and bringing an abrupt halt to their day
out.

“What’s so funny?” asked Ciaran, but

before Chris could answer, the view of
the Mediterranean took his breath away,
a perfectly blue and serene oasis. It was
amazing how you could smell the ocean
before you saw it.

They were further from the towns, out

in the wilder countryside. The blue
water ran up to ice-white sand. Chris
parked the car on the land’s end that
overlooked the beach. “Is this where you
wanted to go?” asked Chris, alternating
his gaze between the beach and his
companion.

“Kind of,” he replied absently. “Come

on.”

They headed down a rough rock path

onto the beach, and as soon as Chris’
feet hit the sand, they began to burn. He
smiled stoically and followed Ciaran
onto the beach. Ciaran had already
pulled off his t-shirt, allowing the sun to
kiss his deeply tanned back. “Have to
build up the color before I go back to
rainy old Dublin!”

Chris was noncommittal in his

response. He set up the umbrella to keep
the worst of the sun from his skin, but the
sun seemed to have no effect on his fair-
haired companion. Ciaran stripped down
to his Speedos, and from the safety of his
sunglasses, Chris admired the man’s
physique. Lean, tanned and muscular…

everything Chris craved in a man. He
was forced to admit to himself that
Ciaran was so perfect in so many ways.

“What are you staring at?”

“How do you know I’m staring?”

“Your head isn’t moving!” said

Ciaran, and Chris had to laugh, his
treacherous intentions revealed.

“You feel adventurous?”

Something in his expression must have

given him away, because Ciaran threw a
runner at him. “C’mon, let’s go
swimming.”

Chapter Twenty

Chris had to change shorts, and he didn’t
bother using a towel, giving Ciaran a
quick flash, but his companion seemed
elsewhere today. The beach was nearly
empty, but not quite. There were a
couple of families about halfway down
the beach, so Chris’ ideas of making
love as the waves washed over them
would stay as a fantasy. Ciaran bounded
down the beach and dived into the
water. It was if he were an Olympic

athlete. He just looked perfect at
everything he did, thought Chris a little
jealously. He followed on, sighing a
little as the water reached his balls.
Then he was under the water and
swimming to his friend.

“Nice, eh!” called out Ciaran, as he

floated just out of reach.

“You wouldn’t get it at home!”

admitted Chris.

“You see those rocks? Let’s swim

around them!” said Ciaran. A big grin
was plastered around his face. Chris
glanced back to the shore, noticing
simultaneously that there was no
lifeguard, and all their possessions were

unguarded. He heard his name being
called in that infectious voice, and his
resistance faded. With two powerful
strokes, he caught the Irishman, and
together they swam around the apex of
the rocks and away from the beach.

Instead of another beach, Chris

realized that the rocks continued. The
sea was calm, but Chris wouldn’t have
liked to be caught here in choppy seas.
Suddenly Ciaran swam towards the
rocks, and managed to pull himself up on
a ledge. When Chris swam closer, he
saw it was actually what looked like
steps cut into the rock itself.

Ciaran pulled him from the water.

“C’mon,” he said. Chris followed him

up the steps, and when he looked up he
saw an old abandoned lighthouse.
Ciaran led him past that, before suddenly
turning and disappearing into the rock
face. Chris realized there was a cave
complex here. He could hear the thunder
of trapped water. He stepped into the
cave, his eyes widening in childlike
glee.

The cave was opened from above,

allowing sunlight to penetrate it. A small
waterfall poured from the roof of the
cavity, a steady flow of fresh water into
the underground lake. The cave was cool
and refreshing, a sudden break from the
Iberian sun. “It’s beautiful, Ciaran. How
did you find it?”

“I’m interested in this kind of stuff,”

he said, his voice echoing off the walls.
“The locals thought this water had
healing powers.”

He looked at Chris shyly, as if

wondering if he’d be mocked, but Chris
watched him silently. “You want to get
in and see?”

Ciaran removed his shorts and jumped

in. The sound of a rock plunging through
the water filled the cavern.

Chris watched him go, watched how

his buttocks clenched and released as he
ran, how the muscles of his smooth back
rippled as he slipped beneath the water.
He really was a Gladiator among men.

Chris slid in more gracefully and

yelped as the lukewarm water immersed
him.

They floated opposite each other in

the water but Chris finally trapped his
companion, pulling him close. He kissed
Ciaran before he knew what was
happening, and the man’s light lips
opened almost grudgingly. It was the
first time they had kissed, but once the
bridge had been breached, Ciaran
seemed to give himself willingly. He
wrapped his arms around Chris, and they
floated in the water, staring at each
other, neither man speaking.

He felt Ciaran wrap his thighs around

him, in a parody of lovemaking, but there

was nothing sexual about this. Chris held
each bum cheek in his hand, and looked
deep into Ciaran’s eyes, and the man
held his gaze. There was something else
stirring between them, and both men
sensed it in that moment.

Chapter Twenty-One

“Come to Dublin with me, Chris.”

Chris spat out water, suddenly

realizing how serious Ciaran had
become. “You know I can’t.”

“Just leave with me, forget about all

this bullshit.”

“It’s not that simple, Cee.”

Again that beautiful blond hair dipped

beneath the water, but this time the
younger man slid from his embrace and
swam to the middle of the water. Chris
pulled himself up onto the rocks and
waited. He felt his heart thumping.

Eventually Ciaran swam up to the

ledge, staying just out of reach. “Cee?”
he asked. “Is that your name for me?”

Chris felt himself redden, as if he had

just revealed some secret. Perhaps he
had.

“Do you have feelings for me, Chris?”

Chris answered on impulse. “I don’t

have a great track record, Ciaran, so

that’s not necessarily a good thing.”

He watched the naked man, hidden

beneath the murky water, floating just out
of reach. “What about you—do you have
feelings for me, Ciaran?” he asked.

The Irishman swam back to the center

of the pond, before turning back and
staring at him. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Chapter Twenty-Two

They hung around the beach for the
afternoon before heading back to Torres
as the sun reached its apex. Nothing had
happened in the cave, yet something had.
Something was different between them
now, an ethereal thing that Chris wished
he could put his finger on.

“I wish you didn’t smoke,” said

Ciaran.

“Oh, I stop and start,” said Chris

noncommittally. Ciaran looked at him,
his eyes slightly askew.

“You seemed off color this morning.

You get bad news?

Clever, thought Chris. Mattie was

wrong about this one, there was nothing
stupid about him. “Sure,” he admitted.
“My sister rang. She broke up with her
partner.”

“She’s in Dublin too?”

“You know she is.”

“Another reason to get out of here.

You

should

go,”

said

Ciaran

nonchalantly.

“We

can

hang

out

together.”

Chris ignored him. “When are you

going?”

Ciaran sat back in the seat, and

stretched. “Two weeks.”

“Two weeks and you’re abandoning

me!” said Chris theatrically. It was
funny. As they had relaxed he had
seemed to click into driving in a foreign
country. Now, he casually glanced at
Ciaran at will.

“Why can’t you go see your sister?”

asked Ciaran.

“Why do you think?”

Ciaran spat out the window in disgust.

“Mattie?”

“Actually, I think Donna and Mattie

are fucking me over,” said Chris finally
giving voice to his fears.

“What do you mean?”

“I was meant to be here for three

months, and then open a shop in
Barcelona for three months. But I think
they’re going to make me stay. I’ll never
be able pay them back. I’ll always owe
Mattie. I owe him a lot of money.”

“How much money?”

“Close to fifty thousand. When my

business was failing, he lent me money.
Let’s say the interest was a bitch.”

“Why would he lend you money?”

“You sure ask a lot of questions,” said

Chris a little irritably.

“I’m trying to help.”

“You know my sister was married to

Kevin Byrne, one of Mattie’s cousins.”

“Sarah. Yeah I meet her once. She’s a

bit stuck up…sorry. I don’t think she
sees Mattie anymore.”

“Ah, Sarah is really nice, but I wish

she had never got mixed up with that
crowd.”

“You’re a fool, Chris,” said Ciaran

softly. He had lifted his feet up, so that
they

were

pressed

against

the

windscreen.

“Thanks.”

“No, really, I mean you think he’s

some sort of big time Charlie, but he’s
nothing more than a two bit gangster.
He’s finished, Chris, what do you think
you’re doing out here? He’s under
investigation from the taxman back in
London.”

“I don’t know what’s happening there.

I just run a shop.”

“You’re laundering money Chris.”

Chris found himself strangely sweaty.

“Hey hold on…I run a shop, is all.”

“We have no customers, no stock, but

the till is full every night. Get real. You
know exactly what you’re here for.”

“Actually, I don’t,” pleaded Chris,

“and you’re giving me a headache.”

“You should just go, Chris—go to

Dublin or London or Glasgow, but just
get out of here. Mattie’s a nobody, a
prick of the highest order. What’s he
going to do? Shoot you?”

“Maybe.”

“You really have no idea, do you?”

said Ciaran. He seemed very agitated all
of a sudden.

Chris was shocked. Where had this

Ciaran come from? Easy for Ciaran to
say Mattie was no one. He was wrong.
Chris was the nobody, and everyone else
was a somebody. “Look, let’s talk about
something else, okay?”

“All I’m saying, Chris,” said Ciaran,

“is Mattie is nothing. You really
shouldn’t be afraid of that turd.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Do you want to come back to mine?”
asked Ciaran.

They were stopped outside a large

apartment complex just north of the town
center. Chris felt strangely deflated after
his lecture in the car. “I’m pretty beat,
actually.”

“Oh come on, big man,” said Ciaran.

“I promise I’ll behave.”

Chris looked at him warily. “Buy a

bottle of wine and I’ll consider it,” he
said grumpily.

Ciaran flashed his best smile before

jumping over the door of the convertible
and disappearing down a side street.
Marooned in the car, Chris lit two
cigarettes, one after the other, in silent
protest.

He looked at himself in the driver

mirror and sighed. A slightly frazzled,
handsome man stared back at him. He
marveled at how he had ended up here,
waiting on a beautiful young guy in the
oppressive Iberian heat. A shadow fell
on him and as he looked up he was met
with the wide smile of his companion.

Ciaran was holding a plastic bag stuffed
with an oddly shaped bottle of wine. He
looked strangely earnest and comical as
he stood there in the moment, frozen in
time.

It was the first time Chris suspected

he was falling in love.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Ciaran’s apartment was indeed far more
spacious than his own pokey little home
above the shop. He even had a balcony
overlooking Torres, and a cool crisp
breeze blew in off the Mediterranean.

The place was immaculately clean,

the only mess a pile of DVD’s and what
looked like graphic novels in the corner.
Chris picked one and flicked through the
pages. “You like comics?” he called out

to Ciaran, who had disappeared into the
kitchen.

“It’s a graphic novel.”

“What’s the difference?”

“It’s an art form,” said Ciaran as he

returned with two glasses of wines. He
had changed into flip flops and a fresh
pair of loose shorts, and was bare-
chested despite the air conditioning.
“You wanna watch a movie?”

“What kind of movie?”

“You like horrors?” said Ciaran

picking up a DVD box. “We can watch it
in bed, if you want. There’s a balcony in

there if you want to smoke,” he said
pointedly.

Chris was forced to laugh. This was a

totally different side to Ciaran he hadn’t
seen before.

Chapter Twenty-Five

“Wake up, sleepy head” said Ciaran,
nudging him.

Chris’ eyes opened blearily. The first

thing he noticed was that it had gotten
dark outside. “How long was I asleep?”

“Not that long,” laughed Ciaran. “I

guess you’re not too crazy about zombie
movies, then.”

“I never realized you were such a

nerd!”

“Oh.”

“It’s hot,” said Chris, running his hand

down Ciaran’s naked stomach. The
Irishman smiled at that. He leaned over
and kissed Chris, adding a brief flash of
his tongue. Chris watched him go hard,
the simple intimacy flashing all through
his athletic body.

Chris sat up and ran his fingers

through Ciaran’s fine blond hair. He
kissed him again, more gently this time,
and ran the back of his hand along the
man’s cheek. He let his lips lead him
from the mouth to the hollow underneath

Ciaran’s jaw, down his Adam’s apple,
until he reached Ciaran’s erect nipple.
He bit it, then gently licked, then nipped
it again.

Ciaran sighed, a long and slow

release of pleasure. His cock poked
from between his legs, blood red in the
lengthening shadows.

Chris’ teeth released the trapped

nipple and he began to lick Ciaran’s
naked skin. It tasted salty, imbued with
released hormones. Chris felt sweaty
despite the air conditioning, and the gap
between his butt checks felt moist. His
cock stood out from him, and this time it
would not be denied.

Ciaran lay on his back, submissive

and pale in the fluorescent light of the
street lamps. Chris began to lick his
asshole, gently at first, but with steadily
increasing force.

“Oh Chris, that feels so good,”

whispered Ciaran.

He moved quickly and grasped

Ciaran’s cock between his lips. He let
Ciaran slide right into his mouth, and
simultaneously began to slide his finger
into Ciaran’s manhole. Ciaran let out a
yelp, but Chris didn’t let his cock flag
because of the sudden invader in him.
He kept the cock hard in his mouth, as a
second finger stretched inside Ciaran’s
ass.

His fingers sought out any moisturizer

he could find close to hand on the
bedside table, and to his surprise he
found a fresh tube of KY. So his trapped
captive had the same idea all along! He
squirted the clear lubricant onto his
cock, all the time fucking Ciaran’s
asshole with his fingers. He kept a slow
steady beat.

“Please, Chris,” whispered Ciaran.

“Please fuck me.”

Chris grasped Ciaran’s surprisingly

thin ankles and placed them on his
shoulders. He gripped his own cock
head and placed it against the tight
manhole that had surrendered to him.

“I want it rough,” said Ciaran in a

voice Chris had not heard before, part
animalistic, part pleading. Chris perched
on his knees, and using a combination of
his bodyweight and the hard strength of
his engorged cock, he forced himself
inside of the Irishman.

Ciaran opened like a petal as the shaft

pierced him. He yelped again, a sound of
triumph.

Chris did not speak, but his heart was

thumping in his chest.

“Hard, Chris,” said Ciaran. “I want it

hard.”

What he or Ciaran wanted was

irrelevant, it seemed. Chris’ hips took on
a life of their own. His thighs pumped a
steady pace, driving him deep into
Ciaran. It had to hurt, that deep thrusting
penetration, but each jerk of his hips was
meet with a triumphant gasp.

Chris lost all perception of the outside

world. All he wanted was fuck this
beautiful man writhing beneath him. His
own cock felt rock hard and numb, a
steady pounding mass of bone and
muscle. He withdrew suddenly, and
Ciaran’s eyes opened wide suddenly.

“On your knees,” he commanded, and

the Irishman obeyed without hesitation.
He perched on the edge of the bed,
opening his legs in a vee shape, thrusting

his bum and asshole out. Chris gripped
his hips and drove his cock back into its
welcoming hole without the aid of his
hand. Ciaran gasped again, as Chris
could finally give him all his length. It
was harder to fight the sensation of
pleasure growing between behind his
balls, the sound of skin slapping, and the
steady slurping sound of his cock as he
almost fully withdrew from Ciaran’s ass
before plunging his full length deep
inside his man. Each thrust was met with
a yell of pleasure.

Chris lost control. He pulled Ciaran

up and pushed him towards the balcony.
Once in the night air, he bent the younger
man over the patio table and roughly

drove his cock into the gaping hole
between his cheeks. Ciaran cried out at
the force of the penetration. Chris began
to drive mercilessly into the Irishman.
His balls felt red hot and cum escaped
him midway through a deep thrust. His
semen flowed from him and into Ciaran
in a wave that seemed to fill his whole
body with electricity.

Chris had never felt so alive, with the

cool Mediterranean air drying the sweat
on his heaving chest. Ciaran stayed in
position, panting softly. Chris’ cock,
though sated, stayed hard, trapped deep
inside Ciaran’s ass. They stayed in
position, panting for what felt hours,
both seemingly lost in the fire of their

passion.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chris rolled over in bed and opened one
bleary eye. He was hit by a wave of
disorientation as he realized he was not
in his own apartment. The bed sheets
were crisp white and smelled of
lavender conditioner. The bedroom was
messy, with his clothes strewn all about
the floor. Chris looked around with a
sheepish expression as he sat up in bed.
He stretched across to the dresser and
picked up his phone. It was past twelve.

He had slept in. Chris stretched and
yawned, feeling drained despite the lie
in. Yesterday had been energetic, to say
the least.

Life in Spain was becoming a bit of a

blur, beaches turning into bed sheets.
“Ciaran?” he called out, but the
apartment was empty, it seemed.

Chris sat on the edge of the bed,

letting his eyes adjust to the harsh
morning sun. He had missed calls on his
phone. Chris sighed. One was from his
sister, and the other six or seven were
from Donna. He dropped back on the
bed and sighed. “Ciaran,” he called
again, but knew there would be no reply.

He searched for his pants and found
them strewn on the balcony, but as
expected, the keys for the shop were
gone. Ciaran must have gone and opened
up. Donna was obviously in town, and
Chris cursed when he realized he would
have to face her.

Chris searched around the apartment

until he found the shower. After a bit of
experimentation he jumped in and
washed the smell of Ciaran from his
body.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chris stepped out into the morning and
almost immediately began to sweat. He
would never get used to this heat, not if
he lived here all his life. And he just
might have to, if Donna and Mattie had
their

way.

Things

were

getting

complicated. This thing with Ciaran was
becoming more than a holiday fling to
him. The lust was growing stronger, but
he had begun to wonder if it
camouflaged deeper feelings. Ciaran

would be leaving soon, and Chris wasn’t
sure how he felt about that.

He didn’t put too much store into what

Ciaran said in the throes of passion, but
surely there was something there, too.

The hustle and bustle of the morning

traffic brought him back to the present.
He soon realized that he wasn’t quite
sure where he was, so he just aimed for
the sea. Once he hit the seafront, he
would find his bearings pretty quickly.

Chris increased his pace as he began

to recognize some of the back streets that
ran parallel to Torres’ main shopping
street. It was shaded here, tight tall
buildings blocking out the worse of the

direct sunlight. He walked off a side
street and straight into an awaiting
policeman. He didn’t have time to react,
merely blurting out “I’m sorry—”

The cop looked at him quietly before

calling over his partner. The second man
was plain clothed, a sign that marked
him as a detective. “Ingles?” he said in a
gruff Hispanic voice. He seemed about
forty, overweight, but with keen black
eyes that watched Chris slowly.

“Si,” said Chris.

“You are the owner of this shop?”

Chris shook his head. “No…I’m the

manager. Is there a problem? Have we

been robbed?”

“I’ll ask the questions, senor,” said

the man evenly.

He already seemed irritated by Chris’

demeanor, and Chris didn’t want to
antagonize the man further. Chris was a
little shocked. He was gently but firmly
led into the confines of the shop. “Does
anyone else work here, senor?”

“Yes, the owner’s nephew works

here.”

“His name?” asked the Detective.

“Em Ciaran…Forde, I presume,” said

Chris, unsure of every statement he

made. Where was Ciaran? How the hell
did these cops get into the shop?

“Where is he?” asked the man, as if

reading his mind.

“I don’t know,” said Chris softly. “I

don’t know where he is.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chris sat in the depressing holding cell,
looking at the doodles and scrapings on
the wall. He couldn’t quite process what
was happening to him. All those missed
calls on his phone this morning took on a
new, more sinister meaning. Something
had happened in England—it had to be
that. Chris kept expecting Donna to send
a high powered lawyer, or alternatively
some customs agents from London, to
walk through the door like in an

American cop show, one playing the
good cop, one the bad.

The truth was a lot blander. He sat in

his holding cell for twelve hours, and no
one came to question him, no one offered
to let him call a lawyer. Instead the
police were pretty nice to him and stared
at him with a look akin to pity. They
bought him coffee and donuts from
McDonalds and left him to stew. Chris
stared blankly at the graffiti and doodles
on the holding cell wall. A mortal fear
gripped his gut, a fear that he had
somehow been set up. You heard about
it all the time, his fears whispered.
Mostly he felt like vomiting.

Eventually he was brought into a room

and interviewed through an interpreter. It
was not the detective who had arrested
him at the shop. They only asked about
Mattie, but it was very rigid and
perfunctory, as if they didn’t really have
any interest in his answers. In truth there
was little he could tell them, and he
thought they already knew it.

After about twenty minutes, the older

interviewer, not the translator, turned to
him and spoke in English. “Do you have
any possessions in the shop?”

“Yes,” said Chris, failing to add that

all his possessions were in the shop.

“An Officer will accompany you back

to the apartment. You can take your
possessions, but leave the keys.”

“I don’t have the keys.”

“Good. A car will come collect you,

and you can go then. Tomorrow the
airport…yes?”

“Yes,” agreed Chris, with indecent

haste. He was still too afraid to ask what
was going on. He would take a flight
back to London tonight if he could. This
was fast turning into a nightmare, and
every little sudden movement or sound
made him jump. He knew he looked
guilty as hell, although he was only half
sure what he was supposedly guilty of.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

When he got back to the shop, the street
was busy, and he could see the locals
and tourists turn to stare at him. Chris
ignored them all, just as he ignored his
own shaking hands and the sweat that
pored off him in salty rivers. Once in the
shop and shielded from the public glare,
he and the policeman went up to the little
apartment. Chris began to stuff clothes,
toiletries and anything he could fit into
his two suitcases. He was clearly

leaving things behind, but he no longer
cared. He wanted out of Torres, of
Spain, of anything to do with Mattie
Forde. The thought that he was jumping
from the frying pan and into the fire had
not escaped him, but by now he was
panicking.

He could feel his phone vibrating in

his pocket, but he ignored it. He gave a
sideways glance at the cop, expecting
the man to order him to answer the
phone, but instead the man just looked
bored.

Chapter Thirty

Chris was able to withdraw seven
hundred euro from the ATM, his daily
limit on the company credit card. He
checked into a hotel by the airport, and
would fly out in the morning. He stared
at the ashtray full of stuffed out
cigarettes and sighed. He was still
jumpy, but the panic attacks seemed to
have passed, and he was able to think in
a more coherent way.

He made the call he had been

dreading. He dialed Mattie’s number,
but before he could hit the call number,
Donna appeared as an incoming call. It
took Chris off guard, but he still
answered. “Hello?”

There was only silence on the line,

then a women’s voice. “Ring me on a
payphone,” and then she hung up.

Chris had had enough. Screw her and

screw this place, this was turning into a
bad parody. He cursed the day he had
met Mattie, he cursed the day his sister
had married a Forde, and he cursed
Ciaran the most—Ciaran, who had
bolted and left him to the lions. Screw
Donna and her spy bullshit, too.

Five minutes later he found himself

walking through a less than salubrious
neighborhood as he searched out a
payphone. He found a sorry looking
phone booth, covered in graffiti that
smelled of something terrible. He
pumped a couple of euro coins into the
phone and dialed her number, trying to
balance his own phone to read the
number.

Donna

answered

immediately.

“Where are you?” she asked. Chris
found himself circumspect. “On my way
back to London.”

“Listen—”

“No,

you

listen,”

said

Chris,

surprising himself. “I got arrested today.
That’s not happening again.”

“Did you say anything?”

“How could I say anything when I

don’t know anything?”

He could hear her wheezy breath on

the phone. Chris could imagine her
puffing away on her king-size cigarettes.
She seemed less cocky, less scary. “And
the money?”

“What money?”

“Tell me what happened,” she asked.

He recounted his day and as he did, the

only time she interrupted was to ask
“and the police were already there?”

“They were inside the shop.”

“If you’re lying to me…I will fooking

kill you.”

Chris stared across the football field,

and saw a bunch of youths smoking and
drinking at an underpass. They seemed
to have noticed him—a stranger in their
land. “I just want to go home, Donna.”

“And my nephew?”

“He ran,” said Chris with sudden

vehemence. There was nothing left to
say. For a second Chris thought she was

gone, but in a very deep smoke toned
voice she said. “Remember what I said
Chris…if you’re lying to me…”

“I’m not lying-”

She hung up on him midsentence. As

he stood in the darkening Barcelona
nightscape he realized Donna had not
mentioned Mattie once.

Chapter Thirty-One

“Hey, sis,” Chris said wearily. His
throat hurt from the amount of cigarettes
he had smoked in the last few hours.
Damn, his chest hurt, too, if he told the
truth. But he couldn’t stop. As soon as
one was extinguished the craving began
again.

“Chris!” screamed Sarah, almost

blowing off his ear. “I was so worried
about you.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” said Chris.

“Things got a bit hairy, but honestly, I’m
fine.”

“You asshole, I was trying to ring

you.”

“I

got

arrested,”

he

admitted,

regretting it as soon as he heard his
sister’s intake of breath. “It was just a
misunderstanding over some tax thing,
but it’s okay, I’m coming back. God
knows what Mattie’s going to say.”

“Chris,” said Sarah, and knowing her

well, he picked up on the change of tone.

“What is it?”

“Mattie’s dead. He had a heart attack

yesterday.”

Chris flopped back on the bed. A lot

of emotions hit him at once, though it had
to be said not one of them was grief.
That was what had happened to him
today. It was a shakedown. The cops
weren’t interested in him, or the books,
or the shop. They only wanted Mattie’s
money. He thought of Ciaran, and his
missing shop keys. None of it made
sense. Could he really have got someone
so wrong?

“Chris?” said the voice on the end of

the line. It struck him in that moment. He
was free, his life was his own once
more. Mattie Forde was gone, and he

wasn’t coming back.

“Chris?” the voice on the line

repeated.

“I’m coming to Dublin.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

The flight from Barcelona El Prat
touched down just after nine, a steep
descent and a hard bump signaling his
arrival in Dublin. The pilot announced
yet another on time flight from the airline
carrier that was in fact anything but on
time. Chris thought to himself that he
really had to stop being so annoyed by
inane little things, like low cost airlines
stretching the truth about their flights, or
how he had been squeezed in between a

screaming kid and an overweight
holidaymaker

with

questionable

personal hygiene.

He walked along the long pristine

halls of the terminal, the sterile walls
and flooring reflecting his mood. He
passed customs and found himself in the
arrivals lounge of Dublin airport. Chris
flicked his phone off flight mode, and
finally got the text from Sarah saying she
had heard the flight was running late, and
would now collect him at ten.

He wanted to text her to say not to

bother, that he would get a taxi, but truth
be told he wasn’t sure if he wanted to
pay the fare. Before he had taken the

flight, he had withdrawn the maximum
amount out of the expenses visa card, but
he was sure it would be stopped soon.
After that he was on his own. His
savings account hadn’t been saved in for
nearly two years now.

Chris sat back in the airport seat and

sighed. Twenty-eight years old, and
running to his big sister for help. He had
pretty much lost everything in the last
year, and yet in an obscene way he was
still grateful. He was no longer under the
thumb of Mattie, and although Spain had
been one part a blast, two parts scary, it
was over now. There was no place like
rainy Dublin to bring that home. After
the adrenalin of his last few days in

Spain had faded Chris felt like he could
sleep for a week.

He flicked through his wallet and

looked at the card that a man had given
him in Spain. Peter O’Donnell. I bet
you’ll be surprised when I give you a
call, Chris thought grumpily.

His phone buzzed, and he answered.

“Hurry up…hurry up. I’m outside,” his
sister said. Chris didn’t have the heart to
tell her that she could stay there for
about ten minutes. The airport police
weren’t going to hit her with a parking
violation at any random moment. He
grabbed his bag and headed for the exit.

Chapter Thirty-Three

He hugged his sister, surprised at her
strong grip. “Hey, big Sis!”

“It’s great to see you,” she said

burying her head in his chest. Chris was
a little taken aback by her reaction. He
wasn’t a particularly demonstrative
person, and had assumed she was the
same. In truth, he assumed rather than
knew a lot of things about Sarah. He
probably did that with a lot of people.

They didn’t look anything alike, this

brother and sister. Where he was tall,
she barely reached five and a half feet,
and where his hair was dark, hers was a
beautiful shade of strawberry blonde.
She had aged since he had seen her last,
but she was still exceptionally pretty.
Sarah had those good bones that meant
she could never be seen as ordinary,
Chris noted with a little jealously.

He looked into the back of the car,

and saw a little lump in the back seat.
“You brought Connor?” he asked
surprised.

“He wanted to see his uncle,” she

replied. Chris looked at the obviously
sleeping boy in the back seat, and

figured that Sarah didn’t want to, or
couldn’t, pay for a sitter.

“You didn’t have to collect me,” he

said, a little guiltily.

“Stop worrying, it’s really great to

see you, Chris.”

“It’s good to see you too.”

“C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

They got in the car, but Chris found

himself withdrawing a little bit. He was
bone tired, and felt like he could sleep
for a week. The hectic end to his time in
Spain was finally fading, and the more
serene road ahead of him lulled him.

Sarah nattered on, and he tried to nod in
the right places. “Any idea what you’re
going to do?” she asked suddenly.

“Try to get a job.”

“Here in Dublin?” she asked, glancing

at him sideways.

That, in truth, was a grey area. “We’ll

see,” he said.

“You could try office work—you did

that before.”

Chris rubbed his eyes. “I met a guy on

holiday who runs a coffee chain, might
send him my CV, see if he’s looking for
managers,” said Chris, though in truth, he

knew he’d probably accept starting as a
barista. He had never been overly proud.

“Sure, we can talk about that later.”

“You’ve picked up some of the

accent…begorrah,” mocked Chris.

“Shut up!”

It was fair drive from the airport to

where Sarah lived now. Chris looked
about, all the time trying to judge the feel
of the neighborhood, but it was too late
and too dark to get a good idea. His
sister was either touchy or sensed what
he was up to. “It’s not that bad,” she
offered.

“Hey I’m not judging.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Well, it’s like genetic.”

“Mother would be so proud,” said

Sarah suddenly, and he laughed.

“Have you seen the old dear?”

“She was over at Christmas, but she’s

more interested in her new beau. He’s a
pilot.”

“No shame, that woman,” said Chris,

but not with any rancor. “Charlie left?”
he asked softly.

“Oh, I’m long over him. He’s gone

back to London.”

“And the little one?” asked Chris

softly, nodding his head in her son’s
direction.

“He misses his Dad, but it’s better

this way. At least now he’ll have some
male influence in his life.”

Chris squirmed a little uncomfortably.

“You know I can’t promise I’m going to
stay.”

Sarah laughed, but it sounded a little

forced. “A guy brought you here?”

“What? No…maybe,” he said and

they both laughed a little too forcefully.
“There’s a guy I need to see, alright.”

“From Dublin? Do I know him?”

“Let’s just say he was the latest of a

long line of mistakes.”

Sarah banked left and turned onto a

motorway. “Well, I’m glad you’re here,”
she said suddenly, reaching over and
squeezing his knee, the way his mother
once had as a boy.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chris lay in bed, staring at the ceiling as
the night hours faded away. What the
hell was he doing here? He asked
himself time and time again. Was he
really making life-changing decisions
based on a holiday fling? Ciaran was
here, and he knew it. He was sure of that
one thing, at least.

He wanted answers. He wanted to

know why the hell he had been dropped

in Spain. Sooner or later, their paths
would cross again, and he would have
those truths. He had decided that no
matter how unpalatable the facts, he
would at least hear them spoken.

Maybe that was why he was here…or

maybe he didn’t have any other place to
go.

Sometime in the darkness, his eyes

drooped, and Chris slipped into a fitful
sleep that he did not escape for the next
eighteen hours.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chris twisted and squirmed in his seat,
but pulled his belt tight and determined
to see this through. In truth it was the
most bizarre job interview he had ever
attended—dinner in a Michelin Star
restaurant. He still had enough style
about him to dress well, so at least he
wasn’t turned away at reception. Damn,
those receptionists could smell an empty
wallet, and his had actually grown stiff
from lack of use.

Chris had reached a milestone in his

adult life. He had attended his first
unemployment office, the first time he
done this since he had left school at
seventeen. Twelve months before he had
been running a gourmet coffee import
business off Covent Garden in London.
Now he had signed on for welfare in
Dublin, via an alleged money laundering
operation in Spain. It was like a game of
join the dots, and the race to the bottom
between aspirations and reality had
finally been reached.

“Peter,” he said suddenly as his guest

arrived. He cursed inwardly at his
failure to see his potential employer

from a distance. He was convinced that
it struck the man as amateurish. Chris
stood up and waited for Peter to sit.

The last time they had talked had been

in Torres, when Peter had asked Chris
on a date. Chris was not too principled
to use it as an advantage in the job
interview. Still, he looked around the
high-class restaurant and felt a little
uncomfortable.

“Ah, I can see why I gave you my

card!” said Peter in a very soft tone.

He was more camp than Chris

remembered. Chris shook his head,
slightly confused.

“I only give my card to rich or cute

people.”

“I fear I’m neither.”

“Well, you’re one, and hopefully I can

start you on the road to the other,” said
Peter.

He had a very nice smile, Chris

noticed for the first time, and had that
easy charm and assurance that rich men
seemed to have in hardwired into them.

“Something has tickled you?” said

Peter amiably enough.

Chris realized he had been grinning,

and it might have seemed a little rude.

“Oh, it’s nothing—I’m just not used to
be called cute.”

“Ah, you don’t go for an older man.

To me, anyone younger and attractive is
cute.”

“You’re not old,” Chris protested,

meaning it.

“Flattery will get you far with me.

Would you like to order?”

Chris felt himself squirming again.

“Actually, if it’s not too rude, I might
just get the main. I’m just into Dublin,
and my sister insists like feeding me like
one of her children.”

Peter laughed at that. “Not rude at all.

In the meantime I’ll get down to the
vulgar part of business.”

“Sure,” said Chris. He ordered two

mains, a wild Salmon with a sauce he
was sure he mispronounced, judging by
the aloof look the waiter gave him. You
don’t belong here , those eyes had said
to him.

Chris felt his mild sense of paranoia

grow. The prices were eye watering,
written in their nice calligraphy. Not for
the first time he felt an irrational fear
about washing dishes to pay the bill.

Chapter Thirty-Six

“We have three franchises up for
review,” said Peter, taking out some
little neat laminated brochures. Chris
could have laughed…or cried. What had
he been saying about rock bottom?

“So you can see we have a pricing

structure, rent, turnover, footfall.”

Chris’s eyes had glazed over as he

feigned interest. It was nothing he hadn’t

seen before. He found himself able to
look at the situation objectively,
especially seeing as he could not pay for
the franchise in a thousand years.

The rent was too high, footfall

exaggerated, stock overpriced. He had
seen these pitches a hundred times, or so
it felt. The only man who got rich sat
opposite him. Peter’s relaxing dulcet
tones washed over him, and he began to
zone out. At some stage his dinner
companion must have realized it,
because a silence descended on the
dinner table.

“Am I boring you?” asked Peter. He

suddenly reminded Chris of a stern
schoolmaster.

Chris shuddered, but he was bored.

He was bored of it all. Spain had been a
nightmare in many ways, but it had been
fun in a twisted way. He missed Ciaran
a lot in that moment, his skinny twink
with his sculpted thighs. “I was just
thinking of a song,” said Chris quite
seriously. “I started a joke. Do you know
it?”

“But I didn’t see that the joke was on

me,”

said

Peter,

with

an

indistinguishable look in his eyes. “I
love the Bee Gees.”

“Was it the Bee Gee’s? I didn’t know

that.”

“Chris, I have no idea what you’re

talking about,” said Peter evenly.

Chris took the napkin from his lap,

and placed it on the table. “I’m really
sorry, Peter, but there seems to be a
misunderstanding here. I didn’t ring you
about buying a franchise. I rang because
I thought you might have a job. I’m
broke. I’m so broke I have to go get a
bus back to my sisters because I can’t
afford a taxi. So I believe I’m going to
neck this glass of overpriced vintage
wine and vamoose.”

Chris stood up, feeling like the star of

a bad drama, but Peter looked at him
with one eyebrow raised.

“Sit down, Chris,” he said, and Chris

obeyed

immediately.

“Are

you

finished?” asked Peter patiently. “You
can at least show the common courtesy
of accompanying me as I finish this very
expensive meal that I’m paying for.”

The two glasses of wine seemed to

have gone to Chris’ head, but he endured
his little humiliation well enough, even
as Peter changed from predatory to
paternal in the blink of an eye. “I’m
disappointed in you—one set-back and
you’re playing the beal bocht.”

“I have no idea what that means,” said

Chris.

“It’s Gaelic, you moron,” said Peter,

though not unkindly. “It means poor
mouth.”

“Oh.”

“Are you okay now?” asked Peter,

studying him closely. He had the look of
a man who thought his dinner companion
might tear off his clothes and run
screaming around the restaurant at any
moment.

“I think I might be having some sort of

breakdown.”

“After two glasses of wine?”

“Pathetic isn’t it?” said Chris

morosely.

“Have another,” he said filling Chris’

glass, “in for penny, in for a pound, and
all that.”

“You sure do love your little

sayings.”

“Amongst other things,” said Peter, a

mischievous grin playing on his lips.

Chris finally relaxed, with his

humiliation apparently complete. “Are
you trying to get me drunk? It won’t
work. I generally just fall asleep. I’m
seduction proof.”

Peter exhaled. “That’s a shame,” he

said breezily. “Eat your meal instead.”

Chris did as he was bid. He got over

his strange fey feeling and tried his best
to be a good dinner companion. He
listened as Peter spoke, and nodded in
the

right

place,

only

interjecting

occasionally. It seemed his effort drew a
benefit, eventually.

Peter looked at him frankly. “I have

three businesses sitting here in Dublin,
costing me money. You can manage one
of them until I can sell it on or cut my
losses on the rent. I’ll guarantee you
three month’s work. That should give
you time to get back on your feet.”

“Are you serious?” asked Chris.

“It’s not charity, Chris,” answered

Peter. “You haven’t asked me what I
want.”

Chris’ eyes narrowed into slits.

“What do you want?”

“Bingo.”

“Huh?” slipped from his mouth. Of all

the things, he had been expecting, this
was not one of them. Peter’s smile told
him that he was being gently mocked.
“You can bring me to play bingo every
second Thursday night with all the rest
of the old queens.”

Chris winced inwardly. He hated

bingo. Chris paused, then smiled, and
held out his hand. “Thank you,” he said,

with real gratitude. He dared not believe
it, but he thought maybe he had just got a
break.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

“Can I have a cappuccino please…extra
shot?” asked a chirpy voice that Chris
recognized immediately. He looked up
from his stack of invoices, a sour
expression on his face. It was as if the
harsh Iberian sun had blown a dust devil
all the way to the rainy streets of Dublin.
The tan might have faded, the shorts and
t-shirts been replaced with a more
northern European city chic, but a ghost
stood before him, all the same.

“I’ll make that to go,” said Chris.

“No, I think I’ll try out the furniture in

your lovely establishment,” said Ciaran
evenly. Two pairs of eyes met across a
table,

a

faded

wooden

worktop

separated by three months and what felt
like a lifetime.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chris had been half expecting something
like this ever since bumping into Ciaran
outside a gay bar not far from where he
was working. Peter had harangued him
into a game of bingo, where a very large
but not convincing transvestite had taken
great pleasure in mocking him most of
the night.

He had finally escaped into the night

desperate for a cigarette. Chris pulled up

his umbrella and tried to angle it to
avoid the rain. He looked at his watch
and cursed.

He was at least fifteen minutes late for

the last tram, and taxis were a devil to
get on a Thursday night. Chris’ eyes
narrowed as he saw the late night shop
across the street. A familiar devil
appeared on his shoulder, and after a
short and very sharp fight, Chris found
himself before a middle aged Asian
woman buying a pack of cigarettes.

He slinked back out into the rainy

night, found a bus shelter with at least a
little cover, and lit up. Sarah was a
demon for his smoking, going as far as to
smell his clothes. It was like he was a

teenager all over again, eating mints to
try and hide the smell from his mother.

A group of people spilled from a

music bar, and Chris found his eyes
drawn almost magnetically through the
crowd, and there was Ciaran. Even in a
crowd he stood out, but it seemed he
sensed he was being watched. His head
turned as he walked, and their eyes had
met for the briefest moment.

Ciaran had looked shocked to see

him, but in the blink of an eye he had
been gone, lost around a corner.

Chris didn’t know how he felt, but he

suspected one of two things would
happen. Either Ciaran would avoid him

like the plague, or he would seek him
out, more than likely to offer some
bullshit excuse as to why he had
dropped him in it in Spain.

But the truth was that Chris did want

to see him again, even if it was only for
closure. That time in Spain seemed like
a dream, and as time went on, the
memory faded and the anger receded.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

It seemed the anger had not subsided, it
had merely been sleeping.

Chris ignored his special customer

and made the steaming beverage. He
made an effort with the head of the
cappuccino despite himself, finishing it
with an expressive flower floating on the
warm milk. He walked over to where
Ciaran sat and placed the coffee on the
table. After the briefest hesitation, he

slipped the bill onto the side of the
saucer.

Ciaran wasn’t fazed. “So how’ve you

been?”

Chris sighed. “Are we going to play at

being friends now?”

Ciaran didn’t rise to the bait. Instead

he lifted his cappuccino to his lips and
drank. It left a little white moustache that
looked cute, no matter how hard he tried
to kept things neutral. “You came to
Dublin then?” he said, with a knowing
smile that irritated Chris no end.

Part of Chris wanted to just let it go,

let this stranger drink his coffee, say a

stiff goodbye and leave. Dublin wasn’t
that big, but it wasn’t that small, either,
and Chris was finally thinking of setting
up roots for a while. Sure he’d see the
guy from time to time, on the scene,
around town…but the pain would fade.

With his back turned, Chris paused in

his pretend work, surprised with
himself. Who said anything about being
hurt? He finally turned back to his one
paying customer, and found him as he
had left him many months ago—lithe,
slim, graceful, tough as nails and classy
in his well hidden way. “My sister lives
here.”

“I know her, remember?”

“I doubt you or your family are on her

Christmas card list, Ciaran.”

The smile stayed on Ciaran’s face, but

Chris felt it faltered a little bit.

“So who was the old guy I saw you

with the other night. Was he your
boyfriend?”

Chris turned to face him full on, his

anger rising. If he said yes, it was done.
The cute little holiday fling was gone
forever. Cute and beautiful he might be,
but with the morals of a—

The look on Ciaran’s face stopped

him in his tracks. There was a fragility
in his expression that he didn’t think the

man capable of. Chris wasn’t sure
Ciaran was even aware of how open and
naked he looked in that moment.
Something had changed in him, and he
knew it straight away. His own feelings
were beginning to feel strangely murky.
“That was my boss, asshole.”

A familiar smile broke out. “Sleeping

with the boss—I like it!”

Chris sighed. “Ciaran, what are you

doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

Chris was incredulous. “You think I

came to Dublin for you?”

“Did you?”

“Are you that deluded?” he asked,

with a hint of his former anger returning.
Ciaran grimaced, but held his ground.
“I’m broke. I came here because I got a
job offer and my sister lives here. If
you’d stuck around in Spain, you might
have noticed.”

The clink of an overhead doorbell

going off distracted them and Chris was
forced to lower his tone. “You left me
hanging out there!”

Ciaran looked sideways at the

customers, and then conspiratorially at
Chris. “It was all a bit crazy alright, but
you weren’t in any trouble.”

“Your auntie didn’t think so…neither

did the police.”

Chris felt the subtle glance in his

direction from the couple that had come
in to the cafeteria. He forced his
business face on and went to serve.
Mercifully they decided to take their
coffees to go, but the girl had a snooty
look down her nose at him, an
expression

that

grated

on

his

nerves—except it wasn’t really these
complete strangers that were bugging
him. He glanced in Ciaran’s direction,
and the young man sat patiently at his
table. At least he hadn’t fled this time.
When

the

customers

left,

Chris

reluctantly returned to the table and sat

opposite him.

“So what’s the rent around here?”

asked Ciaran out of the blue.

“What?”

“The rent?”

Chris was nonplussed. “I’d guess two

and a half grand.”

“Wow,” said Ciaran softly. “How the

hell do these places stay open?”

“Look Ciaran,” said Chris. “It was

nice to see you again—”

“So how much would a franchise

cost?”

“What?”

“If you wanted one of your own …

with that big bright shiny name above the
door. How much would it cost?”

“Twenty grand.”

“Why the hell would anyone pay

that?”

Chris shook his head. “It’s not that

simple, you get a shop fitter, the
equipment.”

“You could do that yourself.”

Chris guffawed. “Have you seen my

bank balance?”

“I was never after your money,” said

Ciaran softly, that strangely attractive
blush returning to his cheeks. No matter
what Chris thought he thought, he could
not deny the basic animal attraction he
felt for Ciaran. It was a living, breathing
thing.

“What were you after?” asked Chris.

“I don’t know,” he offered. “But when

I saw you the other night, out of the blue,
it just felt like fate or something.”

“That

sounds

so

lame.

After

everything that has happened, that is just

so fucking stupid.”

“You don’t believe in fate?”

“After the last year I had…no.”

“It wasn’t all bad, though.”

“Ciaran, you dumped me in Spain.

You fucked me over.”

“I can explain that…I will explain

that. There’s something I want to show
you.”

Chris ran his hand through his hair. “I

don’t know, Ciaran.”

“Please,” said Ciaran, more forcefully

this time. “Don’t make me beg.”

Ciaran reached across, and slipped a

pen from his apron. He scribbled an
address on a piece of paper. “Just come
see this…anytime you’re free, okay?”

Those beautiful gentle mocking eyes

seemed to almost glisten. Ciaran reached
across the table and squeezed his hand
gently. “It’s great to see you again,
Chris,” he said, and before Chris could
even reply he was out the door.

Chapter Forty

Chris sat at the table for a long time after
the man left. Something was bugging
him, and it took him an age to figure out
what. Eventually it came to him, on top
of another revelation, like two buses
coming at once. The first was when
Ciaran mentioned the old guy, aka Peter.
Ciaran had only seen him at that taxi
rank. How had he known about Peter?

The second revelation was a little

more of a punch to the gut. He was in
love with Ciaran, and probably had been
for a long time. He wondered sadly if
Ciaran even knew what that meant, and
how, if placed in the wrong hands, love
could destroy a man.

Chapter Forty-One

“Hmm,” sighed Sarah as she lay back on
the big couch. “I don’t know if that’s a
great idea.”

“What do you mean?” asked Chris,

leaning across, and trying to look
directly at her face. He nearly managed
to spill his wine on the carpet as he did
so, and got a withering look in return.
One thing he had learned very quickly
was that his sister was very house-

proud. He had already been relegated to
smoking out in the small garden at the
rear of the house. He guessed he was
about one week from the cobweb-ridden
garden shed.

“Haven’t we had enough of that whole

family?”

“That’s not much of a reason!”

Sarah scoffed. “I don’t know why you

don’t go with that nice Peter.”

“That nice rich Peter you mean.”

“Is he?” asked Sarah innocently. “You

could marry him, and then we could
bunk him off,” said Sarah with an evil

grin.

“Sarah!”

“We could make a discovery channel

documentary yet—Lovers that Kill! The
black widower and his twisted sister!”

“That would mean we were caught,”

said Chris morosely.

“Oh, why so glum?” she asked. “It

sounds like you have two men fighting
over you.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he said. “But

this one, I don’t know. There’s just
something about him. He makes me feel
things I’ve never felt before.”

“Between your legs, you mean.”

“No,” said Chris very softly. “It’s

more than that.”

“You came to Dublin after him?”

asked Sarah.

There was a tinge of sadness in his

voice, but he picked up on it. “No, I
came to be with my family.”

“Then why were you telling Connor

you’re thinking of going back to
London?”

That caught him off guard. He vaguely

remembered saying something along
those lines to Sarah’s son, but he was

sure it was in an offhand comment. He
guessed kids didn’t differentiate things
like that. He had said it after he had seen
Ciaran through the crowd, but he
couldn’t admit as much. “I can’t stay as a
coffee shop boy forever. I have contacts
in London. We have to be realistic. I
love it with you and Connor, but we
have to be…”

“Realistic,” Sarah finished for him.

Chris looked at her guiltily. Sarah
looked at him. “He’s a bit young for
you.”

“He’s twenty two, but I guess you’re

right. He’s immature in so many ways.”

“Are you in love with him?”

“What?” he asked, as if it were the

stupidest question in the world. “I
wouldn’t trust him as far as I could
throw him”

Sarah sighed, seemingly reluctant to

say what was on her mind. He stared at
her, kind of hoping she wouldn’t say
whatever it was she was thinking.
“Chris, you always need to be in love
with someone.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s not your fault, but some people

just don’t like being alone.”

“That’s not true,” he retorted a little

too tartly. “Put on the movie!”

Chris sat back in his seat, and drew

his knees up. Sarah eventually wormed
herself against him. “Sorry, pipsqueak,”
she said reverting back to his childhood
nickname, but he didn’t reply. Instead he
watched the screen blankly, as frame
after frame of the movie passed him by.
He sensed how Sarah watched him from
the corner of her eye, a worried
expression crossing her face.

Chapter Forty-Two

Chris found himself standing at the
crossroads of a junction in downtown
Dublin. He looked up at the corners of
the buildings and read the faded sign that
gave the street names. He looked at the
hastily scrawled address that Ciaran had
given him.

The smell of exhaust fumes filled his

nose, and the constant sound of traffic
rang in his ears. Although the street name

wasn’t identical, this was definitely the
right street, he thought, so he hooked a
left and began walking up the road. He
thought he recognized a few shop fronts
until it struck him why he knew the
place. Chris could have laughed. This
was the street where he was forced to
endure

Peter’s

occasional

bingo

sessions. Sure enough, he soon saw a
couple of the gay bars he had been in.

Chris spied the mall he was looking

for about five hundred yards ahead. He
increased his pace, and once he reached
the big open entrance he ducked inside.

Even on a midweek afternoon, the

place was pretty full, an array of people
tottering around the mall, ambling from

stall to shop and back again. It was
comprised of a dozen or so shops, with
the whole open floor space in the middle
comprised of stalls. The Mall smelt of
old leather and ripe fruit. Chris
immediately liked the vibe of the
place—it reminded him a little of home.
He searched deeper into the mall, and
found what he was looking for.

He nearly burst out laughing. It

seemed Ciaran had opened some sort of
comic shop in Dublin. It was a surprise,
but other thoughts began to evolve in his
mind, and a vague sense of unease grew
in him. Chris took a deep breath,
surprised at the butterflies in his tummy.
After the briefest of hesitation, he

pushed the door open and stepped inside
the small shop.

Chapter Forty-Three

Ciaran was hunched over the counter,
his blond mop of hair obscuring his face
from view. He looked lost in whatever
he was reading, and Chris was struck
with the urge to simply turn around, hail
a taxi, and book the next plane back to
London. Ciaran had always managed to
have an extreme effect on him, and it
seemed nothing had changed in their time
apart.

Ciaran seemed to sense his presence

and he looked up from whatever he had
been reading. Chris doubted it was
Dostoevsky but before he could make a
quip, Ciaran’s blue eyes seemed to
pierce through him. Chris put up his hand
noncommittally. “Hey.”

Ciaran walked from around the

counter, and hugged him. It was an
unexpected and very uncharacteristic
show of affection. Ciaran looked
relieved.

Chris could feel the imprint of the

man’s body against him. He clearly felt
the mound hidden in Ciaran’s shorts
push against him. He even recognized
the smell of him. It left him unsure, but

Chris had long since worked out that
Ciaran was a drug. He had simply
forgotten how potent he was. “Wow, a
hug!” he managed to blurt out, all the
time thinking, best to keep the physical
contact to a minimum.

Ciaran looked at him strangely. “Of

course,” he said. “Do you want a
drink…coke…beer…we can go get a
coffee, if you like.”

“I’m not staying that long, man.”

“Oh, okay,” said Ciaran, looking

disappointed.

In so many ways he was easy to read,

but when push came to shove Ciaran

was hard as nails. He covered it well
enough, but when you peeled back the
layers of the rose, it was easy to get
pricked. Chris was living proof of that.
“It must of cost a lot to set this up,” said
Chris, strolling into the middle of the
floor for dramatic effect. He could feel
the emotions bubble in side of him—
pain, anger, confusion…and something
else, both skittish and unexpected.

“Not that much…well,” said Ciaran,

faltering a little when Chris stared
directly at him.

Chris walked around the shop, with

its neat little shelves, packed with
American comics and graphic novels,
toys, and paperback books. It mightn’t

look like it, but Chris figured the stock in
this place was heading for five figures.
“You took the money from the shop,
didn’t you? The money those cops were
looking for.”

“Mattie owed me,” said Ciaran in a

voice he had never heard before. He had
been

expecting

guilt,

or

least

embarrassment. Instead he got this cool
reply. It felt like he was seeing Ciaran
for the first time, with the panache of his
façade all stripped away.

“And what about me?” asked Chris in

that same offhand tone. At least this time
Ciaran had the good grace to look guilty.
“I panicked when I heard Mattie had

died, but I thought it was best to leave
you out of it…to protect you.”

“Protect me?” said Chris.

Ciaran walked over to the shop door

and flicked the latch. He kept his back to
Chris the whole time. “I made a mistake,
Chris…okay?”

Chris rubbed his hands through his

hair. Every part of him told him to leave,
to walk away…every part of him, but
one. Yet as he watched Ciaran, he felt
his treacherous hands want to massage
the man’s shoulders, run his fingers
through his blond hair. “What the fuck
are you doing to me?” said Chris, his
inner monologue finding a voice.

Ciaran didn’t turn. “I know you still

want me,” he said. Chris could see his
chest heave and release as he exhaled.
He looked like he was hyperventilating.
Ciaran looked like a coiled spring. “It’s
why you came here.”

Chris found himself in turmoil. He

wanted to kiss Ciaran, hold him, fuck
him. “Yes,” he said finally. “I want you,
but it’s not enough.”

“Everything’s changed, Chris,” said

Ciaran.

Chapter Forty-Four

Ciaran turned suddenly, and marched
straight towards Chris. Chris wasn’t
sure what was going on anymore.. He
felt two powerful hands ram into his
chest, forcing him back into the flimsy
plasterboard wall. A plume of long
settled dust descended on them, as
Ciaran’s blazing eyes glared into his.

“I didn’t ask for this…I didn’t ask for

this!” he kept repeating in a voice barely

above a growl.

Ciaran’s hands had turned to fists,

wrapped in his shirt. Chris could feel his
knuckles rotate directly in his chest,
leaving imprints in his skin. In one fluid
movement he spun them around, and
pushed Ciaran roughly back towards the
doorframe of a stock room. Chris barely
noticed where they were. He grabbed
the younger man by the throat, not
holding him in a full throttle, but enough
to hurt. Their faces were bare inches
away. “You left me,” he hissed.

Ciaran nonchalantly swept Chris’ arm

from his throat and rammed his lips into
his captors. Their noses and foreheads
cracked together. Chris ignored the pain

and drove his tongue into Ciaran’s
mouth. His felt the pure force of the
younger man’s tongue against his.
Suddenly pain flared in his bottom lip as
Ciaran bit. He felt a taste of copper in
his mouth.

Ciaran stood in the doorframe panting,

a feral wild look in his eyes. “I don’t
want you…I never wanted you.”

Chris ignored him. Instead he stepped

forward, and with one powerful push,
knocked him backwards into the dark
office. Ciaran lost his balance, and fell
backwards, a small desk stopping him
from hitting the ground. Chris stepped
into the room. He violently pulled

Ciaran’s shirt off him, but it snagged on
his elbow. Chris pulled harder and the
sound of ripping cloth reached his ears.

Ciaran was panting, his slim muscular

chest rising like that of a feral beast.
Chris felt a mist descend on him, a pure
lust unlike anything he had felt in his life
before. In one swift move, he drove his
palm into that sculpted chest, and
flattened the younger man like a
wrestler. His hands pulled at Ciaran’s
leather belt, and it slid free with fierce
resistance.

Chris’ cock strained against the tight

denim that imprisoned it. His erect penis
was actually hurting, bent back as it was
against the elastic of his shorts. A sharp

dull pain filled his entire crotch. His
fingertips pulled at the rim of Ciaran’s
shorts, his nail scratching the smooth
skin of his captive. The tight khaki began
to loosen as Ciaran’s buckle broke. His
smooth firm bubble butt slipped free, the
peach eerily white against the cloth, his
asshole an inviting dark slit. His hard
cock lay flat against his belly.

“Chris!” he growled.

“Shut up,” he retorted in a low

guttural growl.

Chris roughly pushed Ciaran onto his

side, fully clothed up to his thighs, naked
above. Ciaran’s erect cock poked
between his dark bush of pubic hair, half

camouflaged between his athletic thighs.
Chris roughly pulled his own pants
halfway down and awkwardly released
his thick cock. He knelt down and began
to slurp his tongue between the two
trapped milky white ass cheeks. He spat
saliva all over Ciaran’s asshole.

Ciaran’s nipples were like two bullet

tips, and he was already playing with the
tip of his cock. His eyes were twisted
shut, and he sounded like he was
hyperventilating.

Chris spat as much spittle as he could

manage onto his palms and rubbed it
onto his cock. There was no hesitation
or resistance. He gripped the head of his
cock and placed it against Ciaran’s

center. The man’s ass was slick with
sweat, and he had become entirely
submissive.

Chris raised himself on the tips of his

feet using his body weight to force entry
into the tapped ball of muscles and skin
that lay trapped beneath him. Ciaran
cried out loudly, but made no attempt to
push him away.

He was tight, tighter than Chris

remembered,

but

Ciaran’s

starfish

opened wide to engorge him, and his
cock slid deep inside his tight hard
asshole. The lack of proper lubrication
drove an animalistic feeling of heat right
up his prick. Chris’ hips had a life of

their own, and he roughly drove his thick
cock in and out of his man.

Ciaran’s ass slurped in tandem with

the sound of Chris’ pelvis hitting his
buttocks, and Ciaran yelped with each
thrust.. Chris’ thighs burned as he
pounded his asshole. “Oh,” he gasped as
cum shot right through him, a salty
endless river that ran into the most
beautiful man he had ever touched.

Chapter Forty-Five

“My ass hurts,” said Ciaran ruefully.

“Sorry,” said Chris.

“No, I like it,” said Ciaran. “It feels

like you.”

Chris didn’t know what to say to that.

He looked out into the shop front.
“Aren’t you worried Donna might get
wind of this,” he asked, as much to

change the subject, as anything else. He
noticed he had indeed torn Ciaran’s t-
shirt.

“She ain’t never coming back from

Spain,” Ciaran reassured him.

The air was heavy with the smell of

sweat and a deeper musky odour. Chris’
heartbeat had finally returned to
something normal, but he still felt
strangely detached, as if his body was
here, but he was in fact somewhere else.
“How much did you get?”

“Does it matter?”

Chris looked at him, and relented. “I

guess not.”

“Like I said, Mattie owed me a lot

more.”

Chris picked up a comic, and began

flicking through the pages nonchalantly.
He stared at the pages, but saw nothing.
“If I hadn’t come to Dublin, you’d never
have seen me again.”

“I told you, I believe in fate,” said

Ciaran, but that sounded false to Chris’
ears.

“I don’t think this can work,” said

Chris. It was like a dart through his
stomach.

“You haven’t even heard what I was

going to say.”

Chris held out his hands, and Ciaran

continued. “You could help here. There
is another room that we could turn it into
a café or a diner. I can help buy the stuff
you need. I’m struggling with the
business sides of things, that other
stuff…tax…VAT…we

could

be

partners.”

Chris sighed. “A back street diner

making greasy breakfast rolls for
builders. It’s not the stuff of dreams,
Ciaran.”

“It’s a start…and it would be yours,”

said Ciaran earnestly. “Or ours, maybe.”

Chris was forced to admit to himself

that he really was trying. And who the

hell was he to be so snobby—it was a
long way from where he was reared as
his old mother would say. “Ciaran,
you’re talking like we’d be partners.”

“We would be.”

“No, partners—partners.”

“Oh,” said Ciaran, sounding unsure

for the first time.

Chris felt thoroughly deflated. The

high had passed to a low. If he had
thought he would get closure, then it
seemed he was sadly mistaken. “I have
to go, Ciaran,” he said standing. The
younger man stepped across to him and
put his hand on Chris’ shoulder.

“This is hard for me,” he said, in a

voice so low that Chris had to strain to
hear him.

Chris was flummoxed. “I have to go,”

he repeated.

“Will I see you again?” asked Ciaran,

but Chris looked at him one last time,
stepped out the doorway, and left. He
didn’t look back once.

Chapter Forty-Six

Peter came in to the cafe after ten, and
for a second Chris was struck by a
passing resemblance between him and
another certain London gangster he’d
had the misfortune of meeting. That was
where the similarities ended though.
Peter was a genuinely nice guy, and
Sarah wasn’t a million miles from the
truth in what she had said about him.
Life certainly would be better if he
could’ve felt some attraction to the man

other than that of a friend.

“That’s not a happy face,” said Peter,

amiably enough.

Chris smiled back ruefully. “It must

be all the rain…reminds me of home. It
makes me melancholy, at least.”

Peter stared at him for a full thirty

seconds. “Ah…thinking of going home?”

Chris nodded. “I’m thinking long and

hard about it, alright.”

“Well, I’m over in London all the

time, so you can’t avoid me!” said Peter,
an evil grin playing across his face.

Chris laughed. “I wouldn’t avoid you,

you big old queen.”

“One does try,” said Peter affecting a

royal voice. “Have you told your
sister?”

“For

fuck’s

sake,”

said

Chris

exasperated at how easy he was to read,
“you two should get together!”

Peter smirked. “I’ll take that as a no!”

Chris made the two cappuccinos for

them, and they took a seat by the door.
“What have I got here? I live with my
big sister, and I work as a barista on
minimum wage. Hardly the stuff dreams
are made of!”

“Chris—”

“No, no, that’s not a criticism. You

were good enough to look out for me
when I hit rock bottom. I won’t forget
that,” said Chris, reaching across to
squeeze Peter’s forearm.

“Honestly, if I could give you a

franchise to manage, I would!” said
Peter.

“Honesty, Peter, if I could afford one,

I wouldn’t buy one,” he retorted and they
both laughed. Peter took a sip of his
coffee, and eyed the younger man keenly.
“There must be a man involved?”

Chris looked up into his friends face.

“What makes you say that?”

“The fact you haven’t denied it?”

“Touché,” said Chris. “There is a

guy.”

“From Spain, perhaps?” asked Peter

intuitively.

Before he knew it, Chris let the story

pour out of him, from start to finish. He
didn’t think he had ever been that honest
with someone before, and in truth he
didn’t really know Peter all that well.
“He’s even offered to go into business
with me.”

Peter sighed deeply, put his fingers

behind his head and stretched. “You’re a
nice guy Chris, but your life…it’s seems
a bit rootless. London, Barcelona,
Dublin…maybe London again. Maybe
it’s not this guy who’s afraid to commit.”

“I know, it’s been said of me before.

But I can’t forget how I was left in
Spain, left hanging without a word of
warning.” Chris exhaled deeply. “And
I’m not sure I really want to be involved
with someone who came into their
money…in

those

dubious

circumstances.”

“He stole the money?”

“Yes,” said Chris. It felt like a part of

him died inside. “He said that it was

owed to him, but…”

“You’re in love with him?”

“Yes.”

“Then perhaps people can change. It

sounds like he’s trying to do something
with his life.”

“I don’t think people change,” said

Chris. “We are who we are.”

Peter shook his head. “You’re wrong,

Chris. That much I do know. I’m not the
man I was twenty years ago.”

“What do you think I should do?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“I know,” said Chris, mentally adding,

but I want him so bad. And that, in the
end was the crux of the matter.

“I think you should talk to your

sister,” said Peter. “Blood is thicker
than water.”

Chris chuckled. “You and your

sayings,” he mocked, but Peter just
watched him silently, his black eyes
revealing nothing.

Chapter Forty-Seven

After slipping away from Peter, Chris
jumped on a bus out of town and
eventually found himself sitting in the
park in front of Sarah’s house, watching
the swans float freely in the pond. Sarah
had told him some old Gaelic legend
about children turning into swans, but
Chris couldn’t remember it. They
seemed carefree enough, at least,
oblivious to the day-to-day struggle of
ordinary folk. Chris envied them, in a

way.

“So this is where you’re hiding,” said

Sarah, causing him to look up suddenly.
He hadn’t even heard her approach, so
lost was he in his own thoughts.

“How’d you find me?” he asked with

mock seriousness.

“Connor was out playing football with

his friends, and he spied you.”

“Traitor,” said Chris. A playful smile

crossed his lips to show he wasn’t
serious.

“What’s wrong, little brother?” asked

Sarah, joining him on his old bench. She

scooted over beside him, so that their
arms and shoulders touched.

“That obvious, huh?”

Sarah turned to look at him directly. A

lock of her hair came loose, and she
absently flicked it back. “You just don’t
seem happy. Is it Ciaran?”

Chris exhaled, not surprised at how

she had worked it out. “Maybe—I don’t
know. Actually, I’m just kind of thinking
of how I ended up here today, sitting
watching these swans. It’s been a strange
year.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?” he asked.

“My marriage broke up, remember?”

said Sarah with absolutely no tinge of
regret or discord in her voice. Chris
looked at her guiltily. He hadn’t
forgotten, but he had…kind of. He was
so caught up in his own world that he
had excluded those closest to him. “I’ve
been an asshole to you,” he said, but
Sarah just sighed.

“Are you going to go back to

London?”

Chris shook his head. “No…no, I

don’t think so.”

Sarah didn’t try to hide her happiness

at the news. Instead she worked her hand
into his, interlacing their fingers
together. “When did you decide this?”

“I talked with Peter. He made a lot of

sense.”

“You two aren’t…”

Chris laughed. “What? No…I’m

pretty sure I’m in love with Ciaran.”

“Pretty sure?”

“No, I am,” he reassured her. “He just

doesn’t make it easy.”

Sarah nodded her head knowingly.

“And he loves you?”

“Yeah, I think he does.”

“Think?”

Chris smiled. “I don’t think he knows

it himself. I can’t explain it, Sarah. I’m
going to have to try so hard to make this
work, but I’ve never felt this way
before. Never.”

“Well I am glad you’re staying,” she

said giving him a sudden hug. “And for
what it’s worth, I think you’re doing the
right thing.”

“I’ve learned family is important. You

were here for me when I needed you.”

Sarah smiled. “Always the charmer,

Chris! Ciaran’s lucky he has you, and
he’d be a fool to let you get away.”

They sat in silence for a while,

content in each other’s company. “It’s
pretty here,” said Chris.

“I told you it was a nice estate.”

Chris stretched back and put his arm

around his sister. He realized something
had been bothering him. “I always meant
to ask.”

Sarah looked at him. “Why come

here?” she asked.

Chris nodded.

“I just wanted to get away from

London. We were mixing in bad
circles.”

“Mattie?” asked Chris, cursing the

man’s memory. Sarah’s ex had been one
of his right hand men. “How did you
convince Charlie to come to Dublin? I
mean, I thought he was well in with
Mattie.”

Sarah looked at him as if he were

stupid. “Neither of us wanted our boy
growing up around that nonce.”

Chris’ expression didn’t change, or at

least he hoped it didn’t. “I didn’t know
Mattie was a pervert.”

“Why would you? You didn’t know

Mattie at all, but I saw him starting to
take an interest in Connor. So did his
dad, so we came here.”

His eyes scanned across the park to

where Connor was playing with his
friends. “He’s lucky his mother looks out
for him,” he said flatly.

“I know we could go back to London,

but Connor’s settled here. He’s more
Irish than English now,” said Sarah,
seeming to place no significance in the
conversation. Chris looked at her
blankly, his mind miles away.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chris made his excuses to Sarah, but by
the time he got back into town, night had
fallen. There was a chill in the air, and
Chris could see his breath frost in front
of him. It was after six, but most shops in
the city center stayed open late on a
Thursday. Chris had no idea if the mall
where Ciaran worked followed suit, but
he headed straight for it nonetheless.

His mind was in turmoil after his

conversation with Sarah. Everything had
fallen into place. It was like he had been
staring through a dirty murky window
frame, and now it had finally been
cleaned. Chris realized he had seen into
Ciaran’s soul all along. Ciaran was
damaged, and the things he did, the
decisions he made, had been an outward
manifestation of his demons.

The mall was closed. Chris stood

outside the dark interior of the stone
façade and cursed. He could still see
people inside tidying up their stalls for
the day, hawking to the last few
stragglers. Chris waited until someone
was let out. Eventually the metal barrier
rose for the briefest moment, and he

slipped inside before anyone could
object. Chris smiled sheepishly at the
middle-aged woman who glared at him
like a surly schoolteacher. “I…eh…just
need,” he started to say, but abandoned
the sentence.

Chris slipped between the abandoned

and stripped stalls and made a beeline to
the shop. It was locked up, with no sign
of any light escaping from the bowels of
the darkness. “Just missed him, mate,”
said a voice behind him. Chris turned,
and spied a young man, barely more than
a teen addressing him. “You’re looking
for Ciaran?”

“You know him?”

“Sure, we all know each other around

here.”

“Cool,” said Chris. Except, it was

anything but cool, he thought. Chris felt
the moment slipping away.

“You must be the English guy…

Chris,” said the stranger. Chris must
have balked, because the guy held up his
handand smiled. “He talks about you a
lot.”

Chris didn’t know what to say to that.

In fact, he felt a bit like a prize shit. The
stranger took pity on him. “Ciaran
always gets the sixteen bus home. If you
rush you’ll probably catch him.”

Chris smiled widely. “Thanks!” he

said, turning back to leave the way he
came. He heard the guy calling after him.
“If you go the back way, it’s quicker if
you go up the top of the street and turn
left.”

Chapter Forty-Nine

He had no idea why he was running, as
he had surely missed Ciaran. Chris
cursed to himself. Why the hell hadn’t
they swapped numbers? He knew why,
of course. The time for indecision had
passed. Chris spied a familiar looking
jacket up in the distance, and as he drew
closer, a flop of blond hair poked from
under a beanie cap. Chris’ nose hurt in
the freezing night. As if on cue it began
to rain, a dirty sleet that quickly began to

thicken and turn to snow. “Ciaran,” he
shouted, but got no acknowledgement.
Chris paused, wondering if he had made
a mistake, or worse, whether Ciaran
didn’t want to see him after all. He felt
giddy as a teenager, but as he grew
closer he saw the white headphones
underneath the hat.

He laid his hand on Ciaran’s

shoulder, and the man turned, eyes
darkening. When he recognized Chris,
his mouth opened in a comical O. Ciaran
pulled one earphone from his ear, and
Chris heard the faint sound of a break
beat. “What are you doing here?”

Chris couldn’t tell if he was happy or

not to see him. “I came to see you!”

“Why?” asked Ciaran, that same

unreadable expression on his face. The
snow around them began to get heavier,
less sleety and more pure white fluff.
Ciaran’s dark cap already sported a
coating of white. Even in the dark murky
light, his eyes seemed impossibly blue.

“Why?” he repeated, more forcefully

this time.

“Because I’m in love with you,” said

Chris, finally releasing the words. They
hung between them, just like the frozen
breath that escaped their lungs.

Before Chris could speak against,

Ciaran stepped into his arms and
gripped him tightly, their bodies meeting
in a protective layer of cloth. Ciaran
buried his head against Chris’ chest. It
began to move slowly left and right.

They held each other in the middle of

the back street as late night shoppers
passed them in the street, as the
precipitation grew ever heavier. Chris
smiled. “I think you might have missed
your bus,” he said.

Ciaran looked up at him. “I’m so

sorry I left you in Spain,” he whispered.
“I just…after we spent that day
together…in the caves, then being
together…I freaked out. And then Mattie
died. I’ve regretted it every single day.”

“Do you love me, Ciaran?”

Ciaran laid his head back on Chris’

chest. “There are things about me you
don’t know. I don’t know if I’m capable
of love…”

Chris lifted his chin and kissed him, a

full deep show of his passion. He looked
up at the streetlights, at the snowflakes
that fell through the rays of light.
“You’re here, aren’t you?” Chris said,
running his fingers through Ciaran’s
blond hair. Ciaran was shaking, that
habit that only manifested itself when he
was emotional. Chris finally realized
how he had tucked away all Ciaran’s
little mannerisms the whole time.

“You won’t ever hurt me, will you,

Chris?” asked Ciaran softly. Chris held
him tight against his body.

“Until this moment…right now…I

never realized I was searching for you
my whole life.”

Chris felt Ciaran’s fingers grip him

tight, and they stood embracing under the
streetlights, as the snow grew ever
heavier. People swerved to avoid them,
and the signs in the shops threw neon
light against the glass.

About The Author

D.V. Patton was born in South Africa but
moved to the Europe as a child. He now
lives in Dublin, Ireland. He is an avid
reader and musician and lives with his
partner and their much-maligned pets.
Since he was a boy, D.V. has been
possessed of an overactive imagination,
and he hopes to build his dream house in
Spain and write for a living.