It was hot. In all senses of the word. The newest club in town, the hottest DJs, hottest music. The lighting, as the owner had told him numerous times, had been designed by the hottest lighting designer in the country. The hottest, hardest bodies in town had been invited or paid to dance on the dancefloor. And they'd turned the air con down. In the sullen heat of a Darkness Falls summer night Nicholas felt the sweat drip and pool under his linen suit.
He looked, he knew, very different to the boys below. From up here on the VIP balcony he could watch their muscular bodies writhe and strut on the dancefloor. From down there they could see the distinguished gentleman, expensive haircut and hand made suit. Would they know how important he was? Magister of the Order of the Blood Rose. Senior in the oldest, most distinguished, most powerful organisation in the city? No of course not. To them the Order was just an art gallery. A place where their fathers and grandfathers put on silly aprons and held sillier rituals. To the boys writhing below he was probably a joke. But a rich one.
He was already regretting letting himself be persuaded to attend but he owed the new owner's family a favor, held them in a rather special affection.
"Hey you know you are the spitting image of a guy used to sing with my great-grandfather?" It was at least the fourth time the owner - Nicholas struggled to remember his name - had told him this story. Nicholas marvelled at him. Standing there, short and squat in the heat he looked so like Morty it was untrue. In his late twenties and already going bald. Slightly overweight despite his hours in the gym. He had everything of his great-grandfather's features except the Hitler moustache. Nicholas could half close his eyes, imagine the boy in an averagely fitting white tuxedo and there he was, Morty Schlenstein, band leader ordinaire, standing in front of his Modern Swingers sawing the air with that little conductor's baton he'd been so proud of while Nicholas sang out front. Nicholas feigned interest.
"Yeah," the boy went on, "no-one I'd ever heard of but I've got some old recordings my great-grandfather made? He was pretty good."
Nicholas smiled and nodded, made polite small talk. He remembered the Zanzibar Lounge, the Saturday dancing. They'd imported palm trees and Ancient Egyptian nick-nacks in what old Abe, the charming but vicious owner, had thought the "New York" style. "This place'll be bigger than Noo Yoik," he'd said, laughing messily at his own non-joke. "Bigger than Noo Yoik."
It hadn't. Abe had been found with a bag tied over his head and a bullet in his skull and his dream had died with him. Last time Nicholas had thought to look at it the building had been a carpet shop. But that had been years ago.
His ears hurt. Modern music appeared to be about delivering a beat so impaling that even the extraordinarily drunk could do what passed for dancing these days to it. A partner of a senior accountancy firm, a rather vulture-like man with a fringe of grey hair and tan shoes smiled at him. An Order member, although an ordinary one. Nicholas smiled back and turned his attention to the dancefloor.
Bodies writhed under a sheen of sweat, somehow the boys on the dancefloor were getting even more bare, displaying toned and waxed bodies; and, despite his best intentions Nicholas found himself interested. Turning off the aircon had been a calculated move. The scent of sweat was filling the club, Nicholas could feel the musk of other men settling on his clothes and skin. His breath quickened and his belly tightened.
Careful now
, he thought,
let's not have the old fool doing anything rash.
Men glanced at him, smiled. Of course they did, he looked rich. There was a strict exchange to these things he knew; a rigid and established marketplace. Those who had youth had youth, and those who didn't had money. He was on the VIP balcony and while the men below fought at the bar, he was served by waiters clad only in tight shorts and aprons. It was, he imagined, supposed to be decadent. Given the heat of the place he rather envied the near naked waiters, although it wasn't a look he could see himself entirely carrying off.
Morty's great-grandson approached again - what was his name - Ronald? Was it Ronald? Ron? The family appeared to have lost their Jewishness with their unfortunate facial hair. This time he had a boy with him. Nicholas groaned inwardly. An introduction. The sweet fool was going to try to set him up with someone. The boy he brought over was, if anything, younger than Ron, mid twenties at most. Tall, athletic without bulk, broad without heaviness. A shock of tousled dark hair fell over dark eyes that flashed a grin as Ron brought him over.
Well
, thought Nicholas,
he may be predictable but he has taste.
Despite the distance from the dance floor below Ron had to shout the introductions. Matthew. A student, visiting town, something about art, something about American Realists. Nicholas shook hands as Ron did a three sentence biography of him. Retired businessman, associate of his father's, something about the Order's art collection. No mention of the investment Nicholas had made in the club they were standing in, the mysterious arrival in Ron's office of a retired businessman and volunteer curator with money to invest just as Ron had been on the point of losing his dream. Matthew's hand was strong but soft, his fingers supple. Nicholas wondered what the skin of his belly tasted like, what those hands would feel like on him. Nicholas smiled at the foolishness of his own thoughts.
Just a predictable old queen
he thought.
"So I'll leave you two to get acquainted." Ron was already being called away. For the first time that evening Nicholas felt like sitting down. He glanced around the VIP lounge. Most of the older men now had younger companions. One or two of them shot him an appreciative glance. Matthew certainly was a fine specimen. Nicholas sighed and accepted the inevitability of the cliché.
"Matthew," he said, "would you like a drink?"
It was like dancing, the slow inevitability of the evening. The conversation, the drinks. The glancing into each others' eyes, first hesitant but then bolder, more lingering. And the glancing touches, the promise of skin. Finally Matthew took Nicholas' hand in his, caressed his fingers. It felt good.
"They'll be closing soon." Matthew looked Nicholas in the eye.
Nicolas smiled. "They close at six and it's barely after three. Are you saying you'd like to leave?"
"Yes. Would you?" Matthew looked nervous. Despite himself Nicholas laughed.
"Oh Matthew are you seriously telling me that you can do no better than a tired old man like me?"
Matthew flashed his grin again. It was, thought Nicholas, heart melting. "You are not old, and you certainly don't look tired. You'd better not be."
They both laughed. Nicholas looked serious for a moment. "I think Ron might be insulted if I left."
"Oh I think he'd understand."
They kissed in the cab. In the dim light of the city sliding past the taxi windows Nicholas let his hands explore Matthew's body, let Matthew's tongue enter his mouth. No touching below the waist, not yet, save that pleasure for indoors, show a little class at least. Under his clothing Matthew's body felt warm and firm. A runner's body. Nicholas inhaled the scent of him as their mouths met. He felt himself stirring, pressing himself against the younger man.
"Let's go to your place," he said.
"Why not yours?"
"Because I live in a fucking museum and there are 24 hour guards and cameras that's why." Nicholas teased Matthew's bottom lip with his teeth. "Anyway, I fancy a change of scene."
Matthew lived in a brownstone on the edge of Moon Street. No real surprise, he was a student, this was a student area. Anywhere else in the country and an apartment this size would have been far beyond his means. But not in Darkness Falls. You could not give apartments away in Darkness Falls. It was nearly four in the morning; only a few bars and cafés had risked staying open. Matthew got out of the cab and walked straight for the door leaving Nicholas to pay for the cab. The old rules were in place. Nicholas tipped the driver more than he probably made in a night and followed.
In the dark hallway Matthew turned and took Nicholas in his arms. Their mouths met and this time Matthew wasn't so well behaved, his hand reaching down to cup Nicholas' cock. Nicholas gasped and pulled Matthew closer to him, his hand grabbing his ass.
"Listen," Matthew's voice was husky, "I wasn't really expecting to bring anyone back here tonight so the place is kind of a mess. Could you give me five minutes to tidy up a little?"
Nicholas pulled back and looked at Matthew. The younger man looked genuinely mortified. Nicholas almost laughed. "You may have your five minutes to scoop your laundry into the hamper," he said, "just don't leave me out here all night."
Matthew kissed him hard. "Oh I don't know," he said, a mischievous glint in his eye, "I've heard that waiting adds to the fun. Just give me five minutes."
It was nearer ten. Long enough for Nicholas to study the landing he was on in some detail. The only window on this level looked out on a small yard full of bins and bicycle parts, and another, probably nearly identical townhouse behind. Back on the landing the bannister leaned alarmingly when Nicholas rested his hand on it. The wallpaper was yellowing and faded, scuffed where countless tenants had come and gone with their belongings. It was rather melancholy thinking of them all, all their lives passing through this brown, anonymous space, leaving no trace but a scrape on wallpaper. If Matthew had hoped it would heighten Nicholas' arousal he'd been very wrong.
Matthew's door opened and he beckoned Nicholas inside. He reached for him but Nicholas' mood had left him for the moment. He looked around the room. Brown. These things were always so brown. A heavy brown dresser behind a faded brown sofa, the door to the bedroom open and the heavy brown wood bed frame beyond.
"Can I get you anything?" Matthew seemed suddenly nervous. "Although thinking about it I don't have a whole lot in."
