“At least get cleaned up before you go. I can give you a ride back to your car when you’re ready.”
Roman could feel Hunter’s pulse thrumming beneath his fingers but he wasn’t sure if the young man was afraid of him or something else. The only reason he was even considering the answer being something else was the fact that Hunter wasn’t trying to escape his hold, and his pretty lips had parted when he’d sucked in a sharp breath at the contact.
A quick nod was Hunter’s answer and when he still didn’t move, Roman forced himself to release him. But watching Hunter walk stiffly towards the bathroom brought back the image of him being brutalized and it took all of Roman’s self-discipline to stay where he was instead of going back to the club in the hopes of finding the bikers and finishing what he’d started.
***
Hunter stood quietly as the hot water rained down on his body. Since he was standing directly under the spray, the water hit his head first and then cascaded in clear ribbons down the side of his face and to the bottom of the tub where it pooled and then disappeared down the drain. The sight of blood mixing with the water had Hunter closing his eyes as shame washed through him.
Tonight hadn’t gone anything like he’d planned. The stop at Red’s had been an impulse; a last desperate attempt to stave off the gut-wrenching turmoil of having to go back to the one place in the world he’d hoped to never see again. His initial plan had been to find some liquid courage and then maybe, if he was lucky, a burly cowboy who’d help him forget the shitstorm he was about to walk into. He’d gotten the burly part within a minute of entering the club; it just hadn’t come in the package he’d expected. Hunter hadn’t even had a chance to order a drink before the biker had propositioned him, so when Hunter had walked into that room, he hadn’t even had the benefit of alcohol to dull his senses as he took in the eyes of the hungry men watching him. There’d been a moment when the biker had stepped away from his side to join his friends that Hunter could have used to turn and leave – to walk back to the safety of the crowded dance floor. But as he’d watched the men crudely rubbing themselves in anticipation, a dark, twisted thought had formed in his mind and he’d stepped forward instead of backwards before he could reconsider. And then it was like there was an invisible force guiding him forward.
He’d had no illusions about what the men would do to him so when he was shoved face down on the pool table and felt his pants and underwear being yanked down, he’d bit back the automatic instinct to tell them no and he’d focused on a plaque on the wall near the entrance to the room. It was in the shape of a pool table with two pool sticks crisscrossing over the top of it. Below the racked balls were a dozen gold plates, each with different names on them and what he assumed were years in which the player had won whatever award the plaque represented. He’d just started adding up the individual numbers of the first year listed when biker number one had slammed into him.
Nothing could have prepared him for the excruciating pain that had followed and he’d ended up pressing his mouth down against the stiff green felt so his scream wouldn’t be heard throughout the club. He’d had nothing to grip with his hands to act as a counterpoint against the brutal thrusting that had followed but it hadn’t mattered because two of the other bikers had grabbed his arms to hold him down. He wasn’t sure if they’d done it because he was moving too much or if it had been a preventive measure to keep them from losing their newfound toy but he hadn’t really cared either way because the pain had been so intense that he’d been on the verge of passing out. After a while, his body had gone numb and he’d been able to focus on the numbers on the plaque once more and he’d lost track of everything else. At some point his arms had been released but he’d already retreated so far back into his head that he couldn’t say for sure when. Time ceased to exist as did the grunts and moans behind him and the ugly words that were hurled at him. There’d been no pain, no men, no pool table.
And then it was over and he was looking into the bluest eyes he’d ever seen – eyes filled with a strange mix of rage and pity.
Hunter forced himself to straighten and reached for the soap. The bikers had been a mistake – he’d been foolish to think they’d somehow be his salvation; that they’d somehow take away the darkness inside of him or miraculously change the part of himself that he’d been trying to deny for nearly a decade. Instead, they’d been another reminder of yet another bad choice. At least he was the only one who had gotten hurt this time.