The Weight of Our Expectation

Campfire: Liam's Tale

(edited 2024-10-24)

Author's Note

Still at the cabin in the West Virginia woods near Morgantown, this is the final tale of the evening. Liam Patrick Finnegan is a 17-year-old of Irish descent, from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. He's setting himself on a path that will become consequential to Marco's story, later on.

Memorial Day Weekend, Saturday Night, September 2013

Liam ran a hand through his hair, a practiced move Marco recognized as one designed to draw attention to his biceps. He used it himself. A lot.

"You guys wanna hear how I turned this—" the dark-haired boy dropped his arm half way, flexing his biceps as the firelight danced across the veins—"into a goddamn ATM?" A smirk curled his lips, and he shot a glance at Malachi, knowing his brother from another mother ate this stuff up. "Five g's for my first payout, in fact."

The group around the fire pit stirred, heads turning toward Liam, anticipation sparking in their eyes. Aiden shifted on his log, pulling his knees closer to his chest and wrapping his arms around them, intent on hearing the story.

Malachi, sprawled out on a log, his massive thighs squeezing the wood, hooted. "Hell yeah, tell me more, bro. That's my kinda payday. I need me some of that!" He stretched his arms overhead, his T-shirt riding up a bit to reveal a glimpse of inhuman abs.

"Aight, this one's a little different, buddy," Liam drawled, a knowing glint in his blue eyes. He glanced around to make sure he had everyone's focus. He savored the attention, relishing the anticipation hanging thick in the air. "So, Coach Jared hooks me up with this dude, Nick. Big-time hedge fund guy—big sailboat, penthouse, the kind of cash that makes your head spin."

He held up his hand, mimicking Coach Jared's tenor voice, "The client wants a workout buddy. Greek style, Liam. You up for it?" Liam winked, and a chorus of snickers echoed around the circle from the older guys. King's eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze fixed on Liam.

Some of the younger ones leaned closer, wide-eyed and eager for the juicy details. Marco, despite trying to play it cool, couldn't help but lean in too. There was something about Liam's swagger, his ease with life, that fascinated Marco. What did "Greek style" even mean? He glanced around at the other guys, hoping for a clue but got none.

"Ugh, those bitches," Oliver said, rolling his eyes. "Always wanna see the goods upfront, while they stand there in their freaking Lululemons, like they're inspecting the sausages at a goddamn meat market." He pretended to gag, and Jackson let out a fake, high-pitched giggle.

Liam shrugged, like it was no big deal. "Five hundred bucks. Workout plus a massage. I figured, why not?" He didn't mention that Coach had added, 'This guy's a serious player. Take care of him, and you might be set for years to come.'

King, who always seemed to be watching, studying everyone with those quiet, observant eyes, spoke up, "Was he just window shopping? Stay hands-off? Or did he try to get all handsy and shit?"

"Nah, not at first. Nick's cool, actually," Liam said, though Marco wasn't so sure about the answer. Liam ran a hand through his hair. "He's just, you know... got a thing for muscle. A serious admirer of the male physique." He gestured to himself and added, "And who can blame him?"

He winked across at Malachi, who snorted with knowing laughter.

"Appreciation. I know all about that," Malachi said, voice low and suggestive. "But sometimes appreciation... can make things a little hard. Right?" He winked, and the firelight cast his face in a sinister half-light.

Liam continued. "Dude's actually a decent guy. Works out regularly, has a decent physique. But, you know... he's got his... hangups." He closed his eyes, as if remembering something, and a slight shiver ran through him. He rubbed his arms briskly, trying to shake off the night chill.