Where My Demons Hide

Chapter One - Star

My friends hadn't wanted to go out that night. They had work the next morning and since I had nothing else doing, the urge for a drink around people won out. It wasn't that I was against working—it was just I wasn't good at anything. Ever since I was a child, my talents were forgotten when I was created. Other boys played sports, learned a trade—I failed at everything I laid my hands to.

As an adult, I became a videogame creator and was very good. But during his younger years, my father had made some mistakes in the business world, and I was blacklisted because of it. Eventually, I created my own company out of sheer stubbornness and will to make them all suffer for treating me the way they had. When it became highly successful, I sold it to an American company and hadn't created anything since.

That was two years prior.

My father had to stop riding me about getting a job then. I'd made my own fortune—a very hefty one. Now, he rode me about getting married. During a heated argument I told him I was bisexual. He hadn't even paused.

"I don't care if you marry a man or a woman!" He snapped. "Just settle down!"

I was still stunned by that response. Coming out to him had terrified me. Turned out, I didn't need to worry.

I knocked back another shot.

How many was that?

My mind was hazy then—I'd lost track of the number. It was becoming harder and harder to hold my hand still to do much of anything. When I tried pouring myself another, it shook violently.

That was my sign.

Needing air, I left the VIP to sign out for them to close my tab. After the handed me back my card, I wandered toward the door, holding my hand out to ensure I walked through the right one. The moment the cold air hit me, it became harder to stay on my feet.

Pausing for a moment, I allowed my body to cool down. I could smell the rain and knew it would storm that night.

After a few minutes of just standing there, I was about to wander off to where my driver always waited for me when strong hands against my chest slammed me into a nearby wall. I grunted and ducked a first. The man punch the wall, but I didn't give him much time to scream about it. I punched him to the ribs and thought I was getting the upper hand. I was wrong as someone grabbed me from behind, restrained my arms to be punched by the man who'd attacked me.

One punch led to two then three and soon I'd lost track. The pain I was in was mind-bending but he wouldn't let up. I was bracing myself for the next punch to crack a rib when my attacker went sailing across the lot. He crashed into the side of a Mercedes Benz.

The guy holding me released my arms and swung at the dark figure who'd come to my aid but missed. My hero lifted a large booted foot into the man's throat, slamming him into the ground—then stepping on his chest to keep him down.

When our eyes met, I couldn't look away—hell, I couldn't move. There was something in the way he stared at me. The man on the ground squirmed and I looked down at him. When I lifted my head again, the man who'd jumped in to save me was gone. Though disappointed, I left the area on the back of my chauffeured vehicle, thinking about the haunted eyes of my saviour.

All the way home I wondered about him. I wondered how it was possible they still made men who looked like him. But it wasn't solely about his looks—there was something almost supernatural about the way looked at me—a deep, darkness that felt as though it wanted to consume me.

At home, I poured myself a drink—he was still in m head. Brown eyes, long hair tied backward, muscular frame in a all black.

Each time I thought about him, my heart raced. Maybe it was because I had been in danger and he swooped in to help me. Maybe it was the fact he moved as quietly as a ninja—silent to arrived and silently gone.