That text that had come through from an unknown number had settled the mystery of where he was and then some: I am staying the day with Saxton. I'll be home after dark.
So like Blay. Everyone else in the world would have shortened that message to: Stayn t day w Sax b hm afta drk
Guy's texts were always grammatically correct, though. Like the idea of busting out of the King's English made him scratch.
Blay was funny like that. All proper and shit: He changed for meals, trading leathers and T-shirts for French-cuffed button-downs and pressed slacks. He showered at least twice a day, more if he sparred. Fritz found his room a complete frustration because there was never any mess to clean up.
He had table manners like a count, wrote thank-you letters that could make you tear up, and he never, ever swore in the presence of females.
God. . . Saxton was perfect for him.
Qhuinn sagged in his own skin at that realization, imagining all the proper English that Blay was calling out at this very moment as the other guy had him.
Merriam-Webster had never been used so well, no doubt.
Feeling like he'd been punched in the head, Qhuinn ran the cold water in the sink and splashed his face with the shit until his cheeks tingled and the tip of his nose started to go numb. As he toweled off, he thought back to that tat shop, to the bump and grind he'd had with the receptionist there.
The curtain that had separated the two of them from the rest of the place had been thin enough so that with his mismatched, but highly functional eyes, he'd been able to see everything that was going on on the far side. Everyone, too. So that when that chick had been on her knees in front of him and he'd turned his head, he'd looked out. . . and seen Blay.
The wet mouth he'd been drilling into abruptly morphed from some stranger's to his best friend's and that shift had cranked up the sex from servicing a generic need to something incendiary.
Something important.
Something raw and erotic and lose-your-soul right.
Which was why Qhuinn had pulled her up and spun her around and taken her from behind. Except as he'd pounded into his fantasy, he'd realized that Blay was watching him. . . and that had changed everything. He'd abruptly had to remind himself who he was fucking--which was why he'd pulled the girl's head up to his and forced himself to stare into her eyes.
He hadn't orgasmed.
As she'd come hard, he'd faked it--the truth was his erection had started to fade the instant he'd looked into her face. The only saving grace had been that she clearly hadn't known the difference, having been wet enough for the two of them--and besides, he'd fronted like a pro, laying it on thick like he was all satisfied and shit afterward.
But it had been a total lie.
How many people had he fucked like that in his lifetime, all wham- bamforget-I-ever-met-ya? Hundreds. Hundreds and hundreds--and this was even though he'd been on the sex ride for only a year and a half. Thing was, though, those late nights at ZeroSum, picking up three and four chicks at a clip, could get you into those big numbers fast.
Of course, a lot of those sessions had been with Blay, he and his buddy balling the women together. The pair of them hadn't actually been with each other during those bathroom orgies at the club--but there had been a lot of watching. And wondering. And maybe a private hand job from time to time when the remembering got too vivid.
At least on Qhuinn's part.
That had all ended, though, when Blay had put the kibosh on it by realizing that he was gay and that he was in love with someone.
Qhuinn didn't approve of his choice. Not at all. Guy like Blaylock deserved somebody much, much better.
And it appeared he was heading down a road that would get him just that. Saxton was a male of worth. All the way around.
The fucker.
Looking up at the mirror over the sink, Qhuinn couldn't see a thing because it was totally dark in both the bathroom and the bedroom. And wasn't it just as well that he couldn't see his reflection.
Because he was living a lie, and in quiet moments like this he knew it with such conviction he got sick to his stomach.
His plans for the rest of his days. . . oh, his glorious plans.
Such perfectly "normal" future plans.
Involving a female of worth, not a long-term relationship with a male.
The thing was, males like him, males with something wrong with them. . . like, oh, say, one iris that was blue and another that was green. . . were despised in the aristocracy as evidence of a genetic failure. They were embarrassments to be hidden away, shameful secrets to be buried: He'd spent years watching his sister and his brother get elevated on pedestals while everyone who crossed his path performed evil-eye rituals to protect themselves.