Red Light |Virgato|

Chapter 5

He hates strip clubs.

He hates them with such a large part of himself and that's why it's so fucking surprising that he's letting his ID be checked right now before trailing down the stairs to the entrance.

The neon boy outside hadn't been any less of an eyesore, but he'd neglected it and let himself in anyway.

He doesn't know what in particular has compelled him to be here on Friday night of the following week.

Or, well, he knows.

The leak in his house is driving him crazy. It's ugly and smells like shit. And it's Friday night and he's alone. He's alone and Erick is out on a date because Erick thought it was fine to leave Joel alone, but Joel hasn't been alone in over a month now, and his house is so, so fucking quiet.

He had to leave his house. It was the leak. The leak was driving him crazy.

And there aren't many places worth going, and Perdition is interesting for a strip club, right? Why not snoop around some? Maybe try to understand the appeal? There's no harm in that. Besides, they have good whiskey.

He finds himself at the bar - the bass and the synth and the drums pounding into his bones as he orders - getting a glass of whiskey pushed to him across the wooden bar top.

He mumbles a brief thanks, watching the bartender for a second before he turns around, leaning his elbows on the table, flashing his eyes over the landscape of bodies.

Some of the platforms have poles attached to the ceiling and bolted to the floor and Joel's stomach grows hot watching men twist their legs around the metal, watching them smile and bend their bodies as the other men watching them demand it.

He feels dirty.

Because the way these men in the crowd are eyeballing the dancers' legs and asses is fucking carnal. It's nearly animalistic, the way mouths are hung open and eyes are big, the eroticism making them useless, and Joel turns back to the bar to sip his whiskey.

He shakes his head, reaching to rub at his temples, squeezing his eyes shut, and mumbles, "Why am I here?"

"Because it's a good time," the voice of the same red-haired man from the first time he was here, the red lighting shrouding him, making one side of his face darker than the other. He smiles now that he has Joel's attention.

"What?" the bartender asks. "You not having a good time, guapo?"

Joel laughs, glancing down at his glass. He admits, "I'm not drunk enough to be having a good time."

"Then finish that one," the bartender reaches out to tap the rim of the glass with his pointer finger, "I'll make you another one, and we'll see how close to a good time we can get."

Except that Joel surely doesn't need to be drinking. Because there is only a very small part of self-restraint that's been keeping him from going into his phone, going to his contacts, clicking Johann's (even though Erick told him to delete it), and calling him to give him a piece of his fucking mind. And being drunk will, he knows, deplete his body of that small sliver of restraint.

He should not be getting drunk. But, fuck, how is he meant to stand being sober?

He flattens his smile in the direction of the bartender, hoping he can fake it enough to look genuine, and raises his drink to his lips to sip at the copper-colored liquid.

He sends his eyes over his shoulder once again at the crowd, narrowing to see if he can find what he's looking for. Why is he looking for Chris? He wants to say he isn't. But he knows he is. He's tracing the bodies for long legs and bleach blonde hair and those brown doe eyes. He doesn't really have a plan for if/when he finds Chris, he simply can't think of anything to do tonight, and Chris was nice and Chris doesn't know him.