He drew the smoke deep into his lungs, held it there. Threw back his head to watch the clouds skittering across the early evening sky. Exhaled in a rush.

Ironic, he thought. Trapped in the church, trapped by his own doing, the wood of the pew as harsh and unyielding as his mother’s voice, and all he could think about was getting outside, away from the vacant stares of plaster saints, away from the thick, cloying stench of stale incense. To breathe in deep gulps of fresh, clean air.

Brian stared down at his cigarette. Yes, he thought, today was certainly the day for irony.

He was halfway across the sidewalk when he heard the door open behind him. He didn’t look back.

Woody’s resonated with the scent of cheap beer, spicy wings, and testosterone. There was something to be said for familiarity.

Brian took a few practice shots at the pool table before racking the cue. Scored one bulls-eye out of six before tossing the darts aside. Downed three Stolys before remembering that he hadn’t yet eaten. Eyed a long-necked brunet at the bar before strolling across to give him the once-over.

“Hey,” the brunet said.

“You’ll do,” Brian replied, and turned toward the bathroom. He knew the trick would follow. They always did.

The ceramic tile was cold against his ass, the trick’s mouth warm and wet on his dick. Brian threaded his fingers in the trick’s hair, long and dark and coarse beneath his touch. He leaned his head back, breathing deeply. Trying without success to will away the hum of the ventilation system, the pungent aroma of urinal cakes and stale piss.

He came silently, and was already tucked away and zipped up by the time the trick got to his feet. Brian slammed the stall door open and gestured him out.

“Hey!” the brunet said.

“We’re through,” Brian replied, and didn’t pay attention to whatever else the trick might mumble on his way out. He never did.

It was dark by the time Brian navigated his way to Fuller Street, the vodka playing more havoc with his system than it should. Than it could. He slid open the door to his loft, his home, clean lines and minimal décor and the only staring eyes belonging to an ugly naked guy.

And a lean, lithe blond who glanced up from the newspaper when he heard the rattle of the door.

“Hey,” Justin said.

Brian shrugged out of his jacket. Crossed the room in several long strides. Tangled his fingers in Justin’s hoodie and pulled him up from the chair. Nuzzled his nose behind Justin’s ear, inhaling the fresh scent of Justin’s shampoo, the crisp aroma of soap and cotton. His hands roamed along Justin’s back, the sharp angles of his shoulder blades and the firm globes of his ass. He took Justin’s lips, warm and inviting, mint and cigarettes, slowly, so slowly, until his heart was pounding and his flesh tingled everywhere that Justin touched.

“Okay,” Justin said when they pulled apart, breathing heavily, lips flushed and cheeks pink, and Brian thought he never looked sexier. “What was that for?”