Smoke & Mirrors • Zarry

13. Wasted

The Box was more popular than ever since Zayn started officially dealing from out of their stock room. Cara had introduced Zayn to Marty, the club's owner, who was this short, stocky man with a mustache and a beer belly and he was utterly in love with her, and so Cara had made it a point to use him to her advantage to get her way. 

And it always worked. 

It about took thirty seconds to convince Marty to allow Zayn to store his supply there, that way he'd never have to travel with drugs on him and if his place was ever searched, they'd only find weed and Zayn had a prescription for medical grade marijuana, so there was nothing that they could do. And so far it was going swimmingly since his customers were also making more money for Marty, seeing as how most of them were getting wrecked right in the bathroom, they'd waltz out on a high, rack up a bar tab, tip the exotic performers and then stumble away into the night. It was a win-win situation.

Zayn stood there in the stock room counting his money, realizing that he had made more money in the last week than he had all month and he felt satisfied by this new business plan. But he hadn't seen Harry in the last week either, which was the one sting that felt like a bee sore, and he knew that the stinger was still stuck in the wound because he could feel it. Zayn didn't know where the hell Harry had gone off to and he didn't ask. He didn't bother him about it because like Harry said, Zayn had no control over his actions. If Harry wanted to come back then he would, Zayn reasoned, and he wasn't about to call him or text him, begging for him to return to his flat when he simply had no authority to govern over Harry. 

But Zayn missed him, missed his obnoxiously loud singing and even his spitfire comebacks. There was a major part of Zayn that really wanted to be able to let Harry inside, but Zayn knew that he'd probably end up letting him down because he simply didn't think that he was ready to do so, and Zayn wasn't sure if he'd ever be ready.

Zayn sauntered back into the club after he had conducted the last of his business, settling on a glass of whiskey at the bar as Sienna made her way to the stage; her claim to fame was blowing bubbles with her pussy and surprisingly, she had a pretty large fanbase front and center to witness her talents. 

Zayn sipped idly on his drink, watching her and wondering what kind of muscle strength that took when he observed the third guy in a row waltz back into the bar area from where the dressing rooms and private corders resided, looking as if he had just had the best time of his life. He was quite fit, Zayn noted, with his shaggy, dirty blonde hair, this square jaw, a cleft chin, these light, grayish eyes and he sat beside Zayn, asking the bartender for a shot of Patron with this smile on his face that danced, which made Zayn curious.

"You look quite elated," Zayn pointed out, taking a long sip from his glass of whiskey.

"You have no idea," he commented, still grinning.

"Is there someone new working back there?"

"Between you and me," the guy whispered lowly before he downed his shot. "There's this guy who gives the best blowjobs and I mean the best. He's like...fucking insane. Last room on the left. But if you've got about three hundred pounds, it's worth it."

"Three hundred?" Zayn echoed, widening his eyes. "For a blowjob? Jesus Christ."

"It's a steep price but..." the guy continued. "Let's just say that I've been with a lot of birds and I've been married to my wife for 10 years, and I never came that hard, ever. Took me like five minutes."

Zayn just laughed, noting that it's always the closeted, married straight men who eagerly searched for that bi-curious experience whenever they were fucked up, and then he finished the last of his whiskey, slamming the glass down on the bar top before squeezing the man's shoulder with a wry smile.