Belle Morte Bites (Belle Morte 4.3)

Jerry: Part One

London, 1977

Gideon Hartwright had once told himself that he would never again return to London.

But times had changed, and the city was a very different place to the one that he had known. It was, he thought as he watched a man wearing nothing but very tight leather trousers walk past him, a much better place now.

It had only been a couple of weeks since he'd left Brighton, and he was adapting to a new life in London surprisingly fast – thanks in part to the underground gay clubs that he'd discovered, where men and women from all walks of life gathered, and the raw openness of it was like nothing Gideon had imagined possible.

He leaned against the wall in one of the darker corners of the club, feeling the music flow through him, watching the bodies writhing and swaying in time with the beat, his gaze lingering on flexed biceps and broad shoulders, sculpted chests and narrow hips. Here, people kissed and touched without fear – two days ago, Gideon had even stumbled upon a couple discreetly having sex in the toilets. The air was rich with sweat and perfume and lust, and Gideon absorbed it all, a feast for the senses.

When he'd first come here, he'd told himself that he was simply taking advantage of the sexual freedom and dark spaces to hunt for food – twice since coming here, he'd pulled men into corners to drink from, and both times they'd been so lost in the bliss of his bite that they hadn't cared what he was actually doing to them. But nothing had gone beyond the bite.

Ten years ago, he'd taken a stranger home with him on the night that England had declared that homosexuality was no longer a crime, but it had become clear since then that in so many ways it was still a crime, and the appetite that had started to stir to life in him had vanished again. He hadn't slept with anyone since, but here, in these secret places, he felt electric, like he might leap out of his own skin. He wanted to do more than bite people; he just couldn't seem to pluck up the courage.

So he lingered at the edges of the club, watching everyone else revel in the space that they had claimed for themselves.

A man broke away from the crowd, shoving his hair off his face as he made his way to the bar. Gideon's eyes followed him, almost of their own accord, watching the way the muscles in the man's shoulders – clearly defined in the very tight T-shirt he wore – flexed as he leaned on the bar. He laughed at something the barman said, and then turned, a beer in one hand, scanning the club.

His eyes landed on Gideon.

Gideon meant to look away, to pretend that he hadn't been looking, but he couldn't. His gaze had locked with the other man's like a magnet.

The man smiled, slow and inviting, and started walking over.

Gideon almost panicked.

Last time he'd taken someone home he'd been encouraged by Esther and Sarah; this time he had no support, no one to bolster his courage, no one to remind him that it was alright to pursue the things he wanted.

The man reached him and leaned against the wall, his shoulder brushing Gideon's. "I haven't seen you around here before," he said.

"I haven't come very often," Gideon said honestly.

The man held out his hand. "I'm Jerry."

"Gideon."

Jerry grinned, showing off white teeth and deep dimples, and Gideon felt a distinct throb deep inside. With tanned skin and blue eyes, sandy-coloured hair and carved muscles in his arms, Jerry was the most handsome man that Gideon had seen in a long time, and the urges that he'd been trying to ignore since coming to London were flaring up.