Chapter Nine

Dragged Up

Arriving at the venue, Mark had a sudden wish that he smoked, or at least could tolerate other people’s smoke in order to stand outside rather than venturing into the dingy basement bar. A long line of cackling ladies of all shapes and sizes, and in varied costumes detailing their unique association with their hen, stood outside waiting to be let into the corner entrance of the Adonis Cabaret night club situated between London’s Old Street and the more trendy Shoreditch evening haunts.

Mark took a deep breath, attempting to shove his hands into his jacket pocket. Bugger. They were still stitched together. He thought about ripping them open, but decided better of it. He still hoped he would be able to return the thing unscathed first thing in the morning. So he tapped his hands against his legs, peered up at the huge zap banner display outside the entrance and exhaled fiercely. Bradley’s photo, in all his shirtless glory, mingled with four other Adonis males that surrounded a drag queen, detailing this was not a night to be missed. Sadly.

Mark’s phone vibrated in his jeans pocket, masking his grumble. He fished it out and checked the display.

 

Just go in, you tart.

 

Damian. Was Mark’s camera accidentally switched on and whizzing photos of his whereabout to Damian? Well, no, that’d just be showing pictures of his arse. Nope, Damian just knew him too well. He would know that Mark had been standing outside the venue for quite some time and had made several attempts to venture back to the station and board the returning train. Perhaps he should just do that? Bradley couldn’t really be expecting him to turn up. He wouldn’t even notice—

Mark’s phone rang with Bradley’s name popping up. Was the world watching him today?

“Hello,” he answered. So formal, so polite. “Hi.” Better. “What’s up?” Too far, Mark, too far.

“G’day, mate, where are ya?”

“Oh, um, right, sorry, yes, I’m—” Mark paused, looking back at his phone, double checking once again that no photo app, dog snap or otherwise, was on.

He could say the train was cancelled. Or perhaps that his friend needed him. Or he wasn’t feeling too well. Anything, really. Bradley hadn’t seen him. He could then toddle off to the closest coffee shop and ask for a tea, only to be stared at like he’d spoken a foreign language. London wasn’t known for its tea shops so much as Marsby was. They drank coffee here to give themselves the caffeine fix needed to meet the pace of life. He’d never managed that even when living in the city. Coffee, that was. The faster pace was inevitable. Much like his rapid aging.

“Mark?”

Mark hadn’t realised his inner thoughts had taken that long to process. It was the tea. He’d been imagining what type of tea he would like…

“Sorry, yes, I’m afraid the train’s delayed.” Mark closed his eyes to utter the blatant lie.

“Mark?”

“Yes?”

“You’re a lousy liar.” Bradley chuckled. “I can hear women’s screeches behind you, mate. And whilst I don’t doubt you have that effect on females, I do doubt they’ll all be in Marsby scouting you out. Now get your arse in here.”

Mark sighed. “Bradley?” He dug his thumb into his eye.

“Brad.”

“Oh, for goodness sake.” Mark slapped his hand against his thigh. “Bradley is far better suited to you. You want to be friends, get used to it, okay?”

“You’ve got a bit of a mean streak in you. I like it.”

“Give over.” Mark rolled his eyes. “Why on earth do you want me here, anyway? That bit I can’t work out.”

“Really?” Bradley’s voice elevated. “Guess you’ll have to come in and find out then.”

Another huff and Mark came to the conclusion he should just get this thing over and done with. “Fine, fine. Where do I go?”

“I’ll come get ya.” The whir indicated Bradley had hung up.

Mark sighed, shoving his phone in his jeans pocket, and once again tried to tuck his hands in his jacket. He cursed when one of the stitches broke. Now he couldn’t take the blasted thing back! He shuffled on the spot, feeling as out of place as, well, he always did in any given social situation. Crowds were not his thing. Drinking was not his thing. Strippers were not his thing. Surrounded by hen parties was not his thing.

Mark pondered what it could be that was his thing? Could it really only be tea? How had it come to that?

A sudden squeal of high-pitched screams jolted him from his life-choice musings and Mark glanced up to see who or what had caused such a commotion. A pop star, a cute puppy—what makes these women squeal?

Turned out, Bradley Summers did.

The man himself appeared from the crowd, laughed at the wolf-whistling and stumbled passed the hordes that had formed a tight circle around him. Hands were everywhere, scrabbling to touch the meaty flesh on display. He wasn’t naked exactly, but the oversized yellow fireman’s trousers strapped on by braces did nothing to cover his bare, hairless chest. And if Mark didn’t know better, which he didn’t, that body was slicked up in a sparkling, glistening oil that radiated from his smooth skin and wafted a spicy aroma as he dragged himself ever closer to Mark.

Mark was aware he was salivating. Far more than any of those decked out in figure-hugging T-shirts that claimed Lisa’s Lovelie’s Were Let Loose. His basic functions had gone out the window, along with poor Lisa’s grammar.

Bradley smiled, then chuckled and proceeded to wipe Mark’s mouth for him with his thumb. Utter mortification.

“Nice jacket.” Bradley wiped his fingers down his bright yellow plastic trousers.

Mark looked him in the eye. He did. He was sure of it. Until Bradley cupped a hand under his chin and dragged it up. Ah, yes, there’s the blue-green.

“Oh, this old thing?” Mark finally stuttered out and ruffled the squeaking new leather over his shoulders. “Had it years.”

Bradley chuckled. “Yeah?” He stepped in so close that warm, sweet-tasting breath trickled onto Mark’s tongue.

He grunted as Bradley yanked something from the jacket, a slicing pop and crack breaking through Mark’s pretence. When Bradley held up the shop-tag, he grinned then screwed it up in a balled fist.

“Well, I obviously never wore it all that much.” Mark might as well dig his own grave.

“Perhaps you should have.” Bradley winked. “Looks good on you.”

“Ha,” Mark laughed. “I’d love to return the compliment, but…” He waved down at Bradley’s attire. “Sans jacket. I’m sure you’d get third-degree burns were you to rush into a burning building like that. Or do you specialise in rescuing cats up a tree? Because I’m sure you’d also get a scratch or two for the effort.”

“Would you?”

“Huh?” Mark furrowed his brow.

“Scratch me for the effort of this rescue?”

“I’m very close to it.”

Bradley laughed. “Well, it does get mighty hot in there.” He nodded toward the basement bar. “You might even have to take that jacket off.”

“Or perhaps I could just stand out here and admire the delightful sights.” Mark glanced around the bustling High Street consisting of drunk women, homeless men, littered pavements and graffiti-ridden walls.

“You’ll have much better sights in there, believe me,” Bradley replied, wrapping a greasy arm around Mark’s shoulders and steering him toward the queue.

Mark wiped a hand over his brow and dipped his head. It wasn’t shame—it was avoiding the death glares from Lisa’s Lovelie’s and Rachel’s Roquette’s. The ones who weren’t whistling were demanding to be given the same VIP treatment as Mark because it was Cheryl’s last night for a tongue kiss.

“Sorry, ladies,” Bradley called over, ducking himself and Mark away from prying hands. “This one’s all mine.”

“Oh, God,” Mark grumbled.

Now he was being used as an openly mocking spectacle. Why on earth had he thought this was a good idea? Apart from having a strong, muscular and rather peculiar sweet-smelling arm around his shoulders and a sudden urge to sink his teeth into the pert nipples only mildly covered by a set of black braces, Mark struggled for rational reason to have strayed from the norm.

Too late now. Bradley steered him through the darkened entrance and down the carpeted steps where the place opened out into a basement nightclub. At the bottom, in front of a curving screen of Adonis men, they were greeted by a six-foot platinum blonde, squeezed into a glittering red mini dress and sparkling red stilettos. Whilst it did bear some resemblance to his mother in her early days, the dark beard gave some indication that this one wouldn’t have been welcome at his mother’s Women’s Institute meetings.

“Well, hello, there, handsome.” The deep, husky voice rattled the walls and the grin that followed smeared lipstick onto the edges of coarse beard hair. “You must be Aussie’s guest of honour for this evening?”

“Mark.” Unsure whether to hold out a hand, bow or, possibly, curtsey—maybe a kiss was in order?—Mark stumbled through his name. How the fuck does one greet a drag queen? And is it tragic that I don’t know the answer to that?

The queen decided to take that concern away from Mark and stepped forward to plant a kiss to his cheek and squeeze a beefy handful of his arse. Bradley slipped his arm from Mark’s shoulders and cleared his throat.

“You are adorable!” Drag queen clapped her hands in delight, then pinched Mark’s cheek.

“Leave it, Juana.” Bradley chuckled, but his voice was firm along with the hand he slipped on the small of Mark’s back.

“Juana?” Mark pointed the question at Bradley.

“Juana Bang,” Bradley replied, deadpan.

“And I so do!” Juana winked. “Do you whanna? Either of you two will do. Or maybe I’ll just watch you both?”

“Ah,” Mark said. “It’s going to be like that all night, is it?”

Bradley leaned forward and held his lips mere inches from Mark’s ear. That breath, that sweet, warm breath landed on Mark’s cheeks once more and he blushed. Thank heavens for dark stubble.

“Don’t tell me you don’t go for a man in drag?” Bradley whispered.

“Why, do you?” Mark twisted so his lips were a breath away from Bradley’s. Plump, smooth, kissable pink lips that curved into an endearing smile.

“I’ve been known to step into my inner fem.” Bradley winked. “But tonight, I’m playing all man.”

“Right. Good. I suppose.” He held Bradley’s gaze, ignoring the tingles that swished around his whole body, reinvigorating those stiff old limbs to life.

“Christ on a bike, you two!” Juana flapped her hands in front of her fluttering fake eyelashes. “It’s like watching Love, Simon here. With a middle-aged lead.”

“Shut up, Juana.” Bradley pushed Mark on the back.

Was that embarrassment? Was Bradley blushing? Mark wouldn’t like to comment, so he allowed the grappling manhandling all the way through to the adjacent bar. It was all darkness and glitter balls, with rows upon rows of chairs facing the stage. The circular bar area was manned by a tender dressed in nothing but a dickie bow and tight shorts.

Mark swallowed. Maybe he had died and this was limbo?

“Drinks are on the house for you, mate.” Bradley smiled, his eyes relaxing. “Order what you want. I gotta go back out there. For the pictures.”

“Can I have tea?” Mark asked. He was deadly serious.

“Sure.” Bradley nodded at the barman with a smirk. “He’ll have a Long Island Iced Tea, extra-strong.”

“Sure thing, Brad.” The way the barmen breathed out Bradley’s name prickled Mark’s skin and it burned ever more when Bradley returned a wink, a wide sparkling smile, and scurried off toward the double doors.

“I’m pretty sure you know I usually go for English Breakfast,” Mark called after him, because he couldn’t bear for the man to leave him stranded. Or just leave him. Where was their banter, their back and forth, their…them? Give over, Mark. You’re delusional with early-onset dementia.

Bradley spun, backing through the swinging doors. “The only brekkie on the cards is an Aussie one.” The flapping doors after Bradley’s exit filtered the odd flash of light from the cameras into the darkened bar. Mark was alone, except for the near-naked man serving him. In this situation, Mark wasn’t surprised to find himself wondering what food was served at an Aussie breakfast.

A goblet filled with mini pink umbrellas, a plastic penis shaped ornament and a straw was plonked down in front of him. “Get a bit of Long Island in you before you switch to continental.”

Mark wrapped a hand around the glass. “Excuse me?”

“Brad.” The barman nodded. “He’s continental, ain’t he?”

“Oh, no, Australia is in Oceania. Continental would be European.”

“Oh. So what would it be then? Before you…”

“Go down under?”

“Bet you would, mate.” The barman winked, then scurried off to serve the first horde who had cackled through the door and looked like they’d already consumed a vast amount of alcohol prior to the stuff they now ordered by the bucketload.

Mark sniffed his drink, avoiding eye contact, and stirred the yellow liquid with the bright pink plastic cock. There was something he hoped never to have in his tea. Still, at least this would taste a little of tea. It was in the title, after all.

It didn’t. But by three of them, Mark tended not to care so much.

The rows of seats had filled up by the time Mark ordered his fourth Long Island Iced whilst propped up at the bar. Or more like the bar was propping him up by that point. Considering the drinks were flowing free, Mark thought he might as well enjoy the novel experience of not having to fork out an entire year’s wages for a drink.

The noisy chatter died down and Ms Juana Bang marched her way onto the stage. Juana Bang was actually quite funny and Mark found himself chuckling along with the lewd jokes and banter that she sparked up with a few of the brasher bridesmaid brigades, when the first Adonis act was upon them all.

What is the plural of Adonis? Add the s or take it away and randomly add an i like a cactus? Well, the Adonis cabaret performers do provide a fair amount of prick. Hee hee. Okay, far too much alcohol for you, Mark.

Holding Out for a Hero blasted out from the speakers and four men leapt onto the stage in identical inappropriate fireman’s uniforms to the one Bradley had donned. Bradley was there, too. Mark couldn’t miss him, mainly because he chose to only focus on his performance. Bradley was a better dancer, that was all, and Mark appreciated skill. Bradley had a far more energetic and gymnastic style, even launching through a couple of splits and handstands to the audience’s utter, squealing, delight. Mark could see the appeal but chose to keep his lips firmly around his straw that now had a cock stuck to that too, instead of sticking his fingers in his mouth and whistling. He also resisted the urge to join in with the, “Off, off, off.” Just.

Sadly, no trousers came off. Apparently, there was more to come, and Mark wondered how far this cabaret act actually went, considering he knew how thorough Bradley had been with his personal preparations. So did most of Mark’s office, come to that. Was this really the Full Monty? He slurped up the remains in his glass and prepared for the possibility he’d be seeing that sheen-like body once more. Along with all of Lisa’s Lovelie’s. As in, her friends. Not that he expected Lisa to be baring all her assets as part of the Adonis act. Although, the way things were going so far, Mark wasn’t going to be ruling anything out.

The lights switched off, rendering the basement pitch-black. At least Mark hoped that it had been intentional and he hadn’t passed out from too much cock—ha—tail. It was confirmed that he was still upright and in full control of his capabilities when strobe lighting flickered across the audience in waves.

“Do we have a treat for you ladies tonight!” Juana’s deep voice boomed over the bass thumping through the walls. “And gentleman, of course. Hi, Mark! Everyone say hi to Mark!”

Two hundred women twisted in their seats as the spotlight dropped on Mark. They waved, whistled and said “hi”. Mark held up a hand and was just about to spin it around and leave the middle finger waving skyward when the light swivelled away from him.

“Please welcome to the stage, and to the country, all the way from Down Under, and don’t we know how far we want him to go down, eh, ladies! And gentleman.”

How far could he realistically launch this glass? The chances of it not reaching the stage and landing on one of Lisa’s Lovelie’s prevented him from finding out.

“You’ve seen him on YouTube, I know you all have, you dirty pervs!” Juana chuckled into her microphone, the deep droning tone vibrating the floor beneath Mark’s feet.

YouTube? Bradley was, like, famous? Nice of him to mention that.

“And now, please, give a warm welcome to Geek God, currently known as our Aussie Adonis, Brad!”

An eruption of cheers, followed by a bouncing intro of electrified music started up. The strobe lights stretched from the stage and out to the audience, flashing over each row of girls. Mark straightened, to get a proper look, and his heart beat a little faster too, as if it was clapping along with the pounding bass line and stamping stilettos, waiting for Bradley to appear.

And emerge he did, leaping out from behind the ruffled curtains. Gone was the fire outfit, though. And, possibly, some of his dignity, as he wriggled his hips and thrust his groin, that was not leaving anything for the imagination to conjure up, within an all-in-one Star Fleet uniform. So tight was the outfit that every sordid curvature and every delightful outline of Bradley’s perfectly sculpted body was captured within soft, inviting fibres.

Holy fuckballs. The empty cocktail glass dropped from Mark’s loosened fingers and fell to the floor with a clatter. Turned out, it was made of plastic. Rather fortuitous for such moments. Not that Mark could tear his gaze from the stage to care all that much. Bradley was roaming the boards with such ease and elegance, and a presence Mark had been unaware the man possessed. He was so unassuming, normally. Attractive, yes, a looker that turned heads, but not full of himself, or conceited and brash, like he appeared to be when teasing the audience, and Mark counted himself in that, and firing his “phaser”.

He was all tongue waggles and suggestive winks and salacious swishes of his hips. But none of it was detrimental to being in sync with the music—even the mischievous tearing of the zip from his collar to his sternum was in time. Bradley had choregraphed this act to a T.

What Mark would give for a real tea, right then. He had, however, found something that was also his thing. Men dressed up as a Star Trek captain. Maybe not men, per se. Bradley. Beautiful, perfect, Bradley. Had he done this on purpose? It was only a couple of days ago they’d had their conversation about his love for the old series. Could Bradley really have conjured all this up in a couple of days and that this act, this strip tease, was why he had been so bloody insistent that Mark be here? But why? Why would he do that? For him? For Mark? Could Mark have got this all wrong? Could Bradley be trying to say something with all this? A declaration? Or was this that darned old fate that Bradley banged on about?

And how much Long Island Ice Tea have I actually consumed?

All thoughts were ripped from Mark when the lyrical part of the accompanying music shattered his trance. Bradley peered out to the crowd, caught Mark’s gaze, smirked and mimed the blasted words, ‘I’d do things to you, if you were born in the eighties, the eighties.”

Mark’s toe dipping into the realms of romantic possibilities froze. This is a joke.

He watched Bradley slip one shoulder out from his costume and realised there wasn’t enough Long Island Iced Tea to numb this moment. Releasing one slicked up and muscle-bound arm to more squeals of delight from the audience, Bradley danced off to another part of the stage and regaled those in that area of the audience with more of his flesh and energetic groin thrusts.

He went back into character mode and shot from his phaser into the crowd, who all demanded that more of Bradley’s attire should fall to the wayside. Which didn’t seem to be far off from an inappropriate ask, as an “alien” crashed onto the stage, aiding those demands along by tackling Bradley to the floor. Uniform well and truly ripped. That would never have made it passed the test stages at Star Fleet Academy.

Still, no one seemed to mind as Bradley’s gleaming torso was now on display for all and sundry. And what a torso it was. Mark had been in awe of every ridge when he’d zoomed in on the picture sent to his email, and through the tightness of the lycra he wore, but up there, Mark’s appetite for rolling his tongue along every inch had just tripled in magnitude.

What is this? I have never drooled over gym queens, ever! Bradley was hardly a gym queen. Honed to perfection, yes. But there was so much more to—

The alien scurried off the stage and Bradley grappled up, tearing himself free from the rest of that darn hindering uniform, leaving Mark staring, mouth agape, wondering what it was he was arguing with himself about. Bradley was left in nothing but a pair of tight Union Jack briefs, the red letters GEEK BOY spread across his pert arse cheeks, which he then proceeded to clench and flex in time with the music.

Mark hated himself for licking his lips.

Chuckling, Bradley turned back to the audience and indicated for the seats to part the way through the middle. The other Adonis all darted out of nowhere to help form an aisle, manicured nails all scrabbling to wrap themselves around bumped biceps and thick thighs. Mark cocked his head.

Bradley jumped down from the stage, then launched into a running flip and tuck through the separated chairs, landing on his feet in front of Mark at the back of the bar.

“Oh.” Mark widened his eyes. “Hello.”

Bradley winked and mouthed “Hi,” before pirouetting back up to the stage and ending his delightful performance by holding his phaser in front of his groin and ripping off the briefs. How, Mark couldn’t fathom. He tended to hop around the bedroom to rip off his own and mostly ended up falling down to kick the rest off. That from Bradley had been one slick tear that had Mark dizzy. Grinning, Bradley threw the garment in to the audience as a beam of light shot out from his phaser-slash-groin, making it impossible to get a real look at Bradley’s handful, and all the lights suddenly turned off, pitching the place into darkness.

The crowd erupted. And Mark was a little concerned that he might have, too.

“Wasn’t he just great, ladies!” A spotlight illuminated Juana on the stage to a chorus of whistles and screams. “Fancy your chances at serenading our young men?”

Three chairs were plonked down on stage by three of the Adonises—Bradley being one and now back in a new pair of boxer briefs. They all stood beside Juana, awaiting further instruction, but Mark caught Bradley’s gaze fluttering out to the crowd. He slinked away into the shadows. He was sure he was still blushing. He’d had quite enough of that for tonight.

“So, go forth, my young men.” Juana flapped her oversized nails at the audience. “Find me the one you want to watch dance for you!”

Three ripped men jumped down into the fray and scanned the girls who had flung their arms wildly into the air and waved with a frantic “choose me, choose me” desperation. Two of the Adonises chose quickly, dragging up giggling hens, but Bradley roamed toward the back.

Oh, hell no. Mark shook his head.

Bradley grinned and pointed. To Mark.

Mark shook his head, more fiercely that time with less of the amusement and more of the utter horror and confirmation of his blatant refusal. No amount of Long Island Ice Tea was going to get him up there. Bradley, unperturbed, curled a finger out in front of his face and beckoned with a sure-fire come-hither look in his eye.

“Dance for me, Mark,” Bradley called over the loud squeals and whoops from the audience.

“I’d really rather not, if it’s all the same to you.” Perhaps fuck off might have been better received, as Bradley didn’t seem to get the hint, instead grabbing Mark’s hand and tugging him forward.

“Too late.” Bradley did not release his firm grip until Mark was up on that stage, squinting out to the heckling crowd.

I’ve had finer moments.

“Well, hello, there,” Juana drawled into the microphone. “We meet again. Everybody, this is Mark! He’s gay.”

The crowd roared, and Mark would have liked to have said the feeling he received was like that of a popstar, but sadly, he just felt like a right utter wanker. The moment was up there with the memory of his school speech, when the entire school had applauded his bravery, only for him to be met with cackles, fists and leftover contents of lunchboxes on his way home.

“I’m sure I’m not the only one,” Mark called out through gritted teeth, gaze firmly fixed on Bradley who sank into one of the seats on stage.

“Now, now, Mark.” Juana covered her mouth to speak away from the microphone this time. “No spoiling the illusion.”

The best thing Mark could think to do right then was to pull camaraderie with the other two women who had been dragged up on stage, form a bond through the humiliation. He glanced to his right. Of course they would be pure goddesses, equipped in the art of lap dance seduction.

It was Mark that was here for the comic relief. Wonderful. This is what Bradley had planned all along!

“Okay, ladies!” Juana bellowed back into the microphone, snapping Mark from his homicidal thoughts. “And, gent.”

She winked at Mark, but he ignored it in favour of offering the deadliest of death stares to Bradley, seated in front of him with his face at Mark’s groin level. Bradley, the utter bastard, laughed.

“In order to win the ultimate prize, you must dance, strut your stuff and seduce as best you can. The audience will decide our winner via the applaudometer.” Juana held up a contraption that had clearly been made by Blue Peter in the sixties. Mark was dubious about its authenticity. “Cue the music, boys!”

“What’s the prize?” Mark hollered over at Juana.

She pretended not to hear him and the loud boom from the music’s bass line ricocheted off the walls and banged into Mark’s temple. Was he hungover already? The two girls either side of Mark were overly keen and thrust their ample cleavages forward into the faces of their own personal Adonis. Mark was rooted to the spot. What could he do? His idea of dancing was step to the side and back again. Hardly what one would call seductive.

“Come on, Mark!” Bradley urged, beckoning with two hands and offering his lap for Mark to utilise for his enjoyment. In public. No, not just in public. On stage. On show.

Kill me now.

“I will get you for this.” Mark replied through gritted teeth. How? He’d figure that out another time.

Bradley chuckled.

The four Long Island Iced Teas decided then was the time to work their magic and Mark stepped forward in an attempt to prove he wasn’t one to run away from a challenge. Clearing his throat, he ruffled back his hair and step, shuffle, stepped toward Bradley. The other two ladies were giving the moment their best, straddling their Adonises or grinding their behinds. No bother, Mark could work what he had in his arsenal.

Unzipping his leather jacket, Mark threw his head back and put his mound of thick hair to full use by flicking his head back and forth. He got into it, letting the music wash over his resolve and cavorted in closer to Bradley. He could almost forget a couple of hundred people were watching him. It wasn’t as if he’d ever have to watch it himself.

“Off, off, off!” The words of encouragement from the audience rung in his ears.

“You heard them.” Bradley winked and gripped his fingers tightly on his bare thighs.

Was that because the Adonises weren’t allowed to touch? The others certainly hadn’t handled their dancers. Did Bradley want to touch him? The very thought urged Mark onwards. He slipped off his new leather jacket, curled a finger through the loop and twirled it around his head.

It would have been a good move, but rather overzealous in his whirling, Mark whacked the dancing girl next to him with it. She squealed, clutching her eye and fell into the lap of her Adonis.

Oh bugger, the zip!

Mark held up his hands. “Sorry. Oh, bugger, I’m so sorry.”

The music screeched to a halt, the first aiders launched onto the stage and Mark rubbed soothing circles along the girl’s back.

Bradley pissed his tiny, tight pants.

 

* * * *

 

“I don’t think she’ll sue, so you’re all right.” Bradley clamped his lips shut, his shoulders wobbling through fighting back the urge to laugh.

“Wonderful.” Mark pushed away from the wall of the smokers’ corner outside, where he had been hiding for the remainder of the evening.

He had been offered a number of cigarettes from the ladies who’d taken pity on him, but had declined graciously. If he even attempted to start smoking now he would only hack up a lung, or set the entire nightclub alight, such was the way his day, and entire existence, was unfolding.

Bradley had finished his stripping stint and changed back into more appropriate attire for the outside weather and the club was turning back into the full-on night haunt.

“I would like to say, thanks for inviting me, but, well…”

“You had fun, right?” Bradley had an almost hopeful hint of elevation to his question.

“No,” Mark lied.

He had actually had rather a lot of fun, minus the near-gouging-out-of-eyeball experience. But the Lisa Lovely had won her prize, which was a date with her Adonis, so Mark realised that was a win/win. Win for her, obviously, and a win for him having not to have actually won. Because a date with Bradley? That was never going to happen. Not now Mark had proven himself to be a klutz, a safety hazard and in no way a magnetic force in the art of seduction.

“I’m going to slink back home now and never venture into London again until every person who may have been here has aged significantly that they either die, or the memory dies with them. Either, or, it’ll be a while.”

“You know they film that, right?”

“Oh, hell, no.” Mark pinched the bridge of his nose. Now he was going to rival Bradley’s YouTube success but in a whole different ball game.

Bradley chuckled. “Maybe you’re better suited to slow dancing?”

“Must be your accent there,” Mark replied, “because I’m sure you meant to pronounce that no dancing.”

“I dunno, mate. I think you’d look good in a ballroom. Bow tie, elegant. Right up your street.”

“My mother and father used to make me go watch them ballroom dancing,” Mark admitted. “It’s not something I look on with fondness.”

“All right.” Bradley shivered, a cold breeze blowing.

“You need more clothes on.” Mark indicated the vest and tight jeans that Bradley was wearing in minus temperatures.

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Oi! None of that, thank you. I am not old enough to be your daddy.”

“Just my sugar one.” Bradley winked.

Mark had no idea what to say to that. It dredged up a bunch of things that Mark had chosen to long forget.

“Anyway, you gotta appreciate the song I chose, right?” Bradley’s wide-eyed gaze was full of boyish charm.

“Ah, yes.” Mark nodded. “Nice.”

“’Cause you were born in the eighties, right?” Bradley grinned.

“No,” Mark deadpanned. “Nope, not the eighties. Sadly.”

“You’re thirty-nine?” Bradley furrowed his brow. “I’m sure I worked that out right.”

“I was born in seventy-nine. December seventy-nine. The cusp of the eighties, so if you were trying to insinuate something with that song, I’m afraid it sorely missed.”

What a way to kill a moment. Not that this was a moment, mind. Mark had made sure of that with his lap dance gone wrong. And he couldn’t shake his sullen mood.

“You’re a Sagittarius?” Bradley asked.

“I believe so, yes.”

“Huh.” Bradley bit his lip with a faraway look in his eye. “A fire sign. The Archer. And a traveller.”

“See, the stars can be wrong.”

“Come on.” Bradley slapped Mark on the back. “Let’s go get a train back home, then, yeah? Stick to the seaside for you.”

Mark nodded. It was probably for the best. He’d left London some time back and now at least he knew he’d outgrown the nighttime frolicking. It was a good thing. Like closure on the place. And on him, and any hope that he could recapture his lost youth by hanging around with someone far younger. This had all been a mistake. A big mistake. Back to slippers and damp living spaces. It was fine.

Mark fished his phone out of his back pocket and checked the time. “Bugger. We’ve missed the train.”

Bradley shrugged. “No worries. Hotel it is.” He smiled, holding out his arm and whistling for the black cab passing to stop. “Come on, Mark. I’m knackered!”

Mark didn’t have much of a choice. The next train wasn’t for, like, another thirty minutes.