Written in Scars(5)

Sam looked at the number and smiled, knowing he would never dial it. It was impossible. He couldn’t be friends with a man like Logan. He fancied him too much. Besides, Logan was a famous author, and he was a civil servant. An office-based pen pusher who did a bit of charity work in his spare time. They’d have nothing in common. Still, Logan seemed like a nice guy. Not at all up-himself for someone so handsome and successful.

Maybe he’d send a text when he’d read the book, to let him know how much he enjoyed it. Yes, that would be a laid-back way of keeping in touch.

Going for a drink … that could never happen.

Sam saved the number to his phone.

He gazed dreamily out of the window, not noticing the grim, underground tunnels the train passed through, seeing beyond them to a square-jawed superman with electric green eyes. Imagining what lay beneath the open neck shirt. A taut chest, nice and hairy; a treasure trail of fur leading down, below the waist band of his trousers. Then what? A big cock? He was a tall guy, well-built, it would be a huge disappointment to find he didn’t measure up in the crotch department.

Stop it.

He shook himself out the fantasy. This is ridiculous. He would never know what Logan kept in his pants: he was way out of Sam’s league. He could have any man he wanted. Why would he look twice at Sam?

He was flirting with you. He gave you his number.

No, Sam shoved the idea aside. He was friendly, that’s all. Charming. It was stupid – deluded – to think it had been anything more.

Besides Sam had a husband at home. He shouldn’t be thinking about men like Logan.

The train arrived at his station. Holding tight to the book, he hurried off. The night had turned fully dark as he left the platform and set off for home. The terraced streets were deserted as he walked the five blocks to his house. He was hungry and realized he had eaten nothing all day besides a meagre sandwich, having gone straight to the TV station after work. There’d been food in the green room, but he was too nervous before the show, and then afterwards, too self-conscious to eat in front of Logan.

He hoped Johan had prepared something good for dinner. Usually Sam was the first home and did most of the cooking, but tonight it was all down to his husband.

There were lights on in the living room though the curtains were closed as he walked up the path to the front door. Johan would have been home a couple of hours by now. Sam didn’t mind if he’d eaten without him so long as he’d left something good behind. He was too hungry to start cooking from scratch.

As he entered the hall, all of Sam’s optimism drained away.

There were two strange jackets dumped at the bottom of the stairs and voices he didn’t recognize from the living room. Murmurs and moans.

No, he wouldn’t. Not again.

The scene he encountered confirmed every fear.

Johan Teague, Sam’s husband of seven years, sat topless in the centre of the sofa with his trousers around his ankles. The hairy, naked arse of a stranger was stuck high in the air while his head got busy in Johan’s lap. On the other side of him, another man, young and skinny, had a tourniquet wrapped tight round his left bicep. Undeterred by Sam’s entrance, the man flicked the air bubbles to the top of a small syringe, adjusted the plunger and then stuck the needle straight into an engorged vein.

“Hell, yeah,” he groaned, eyes closed. “Now I’m ready to fuck.”

Sam recognized the same drug glazed expression on his husband’s face. Johan slowly opened his eyes, looking at Sam with huge, dilated pupils.

“Hey,” he drawled. “there you are.” The hairy stranger sucking his cock tried to raise his head, but Johan shoved him back down. The man didn’t resist.

Sam felt the room shrink, crowding in on him.

He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Not again.

“What are you doing?” he asked numbly. Stupid question. He could see very well what they were doing.

The young man who had just shot up, flopped forward onto Johan’s lap, pushing the other man off his dick so he could suck it himself. The older, hairy guy leaned back on his knees, turning to look at Sam, a leering grin on his face. He was as high as the other two. And ugly. Jesus, what a brute. He had thinning, greasy hair and pock-marked skin. It looked like there were a couple of teeth missing too.

The coffee table with strewn with their drug paraphernalia; discarded wrappers, small bottles, more syringes, a half empty bottle of cheap vodka and three glasses.

“Who’s this?” the ugly guy asked, looking Sam up and down.

“My husband,” Johan answered, his hand on the back of the skinny man’s head. “I told you about him.”

“Oh, right. Yeah. Forgot. He’s cute.” The man licked dry, cracked lips. “You boys are a really pretty couple, you know. What’s your name cutie?”

“Who are they?” Sam demanded, staring furiously at Johan.

“Couple of guys I met on Grindr,” Johan said, thrusting his hips upwards from the sofa, ignoring the anger in Sam’s voice. “They were in the neighbourhood and looking to party.”

“That’s right,” the older man said. He stared at Sam and jerked his tiny dick. “What do you like cutie? Do you fuck or get fuck? I’ll go anyway you want me to.”

Barely containing the resentment he felt, Sam focused on Johan. “Finish what you’re doing and get them the fuck out of here.”