The gasp clued him in that the other rugby players were slowly circling them, rubbernecking.
Ian had the balls to fucking laugh. “Traitor to what?”
“To men.” Tierney’s fingers bit into his palms as he tried to hang on to his temper. “Straight men.” Guys who didn’t admit their secret longings.
Ian’s face went expressionless in that way he had. Cutting him out. “Why’s that, Tierney?” he asked. “’Cause I never told you? Maybe I thought you’d act just like this.”
“So it’s true? You’re fucking that fairy?” he half yelled, but he didn’t need an answer. “Just tell me one thing.” He could hear that little note of achiness in his voice. Hope that this could somehow be salvaged. “Why him?”
“Why not? Me being with him should mean fuck-all to you.”
He body-slammed Ian and knocked him on his ass, and something broke inside him. An internal organ he hadn’t even known he had, full of pus and bile he’d been storing up for the last twenty years. It hazed his vision with sickly green and plugged his ears so all he could hear were the things he was screaming to his best fucking friend, as Ian lay on the ground, gasping for breath. “Get up you fucking faggot! Bet you can’t fight a real man since that little nellie boy got you up his ass, can you? How is he, huh, Ian? Does he squeal like a pig when you—”
Ian hooked Tierney’s legs at the knee, taking him down and shutting Tierney up with his fist. Then it was all about fighting dirty. “Fourteen years. Fourteen years.” He couldn’t stop saying it, in between getting whaled on by Ian and doing his share of damage in return. He got in one good punch to Ian’s eye and was rewarded with a fierce surge of joy, burning away some of the sickness filling him. He redoubled his efforts, took his fourteen years of pain and fed it to Ian via bodily harm, cleaning himself out a little more every time his fist connected with flesh.
He’d never felt rage like this, or wanted to hurt another person so much.
Then he was being pulled away, up to standing, fighting the arms pinning his behind his back, unable to focus on anything but Ian’s face and his own desire to cave it in. Make Ian fully pay for those lost years.
Make him pay for caring about someone else enough to come out.
By the time the guys had let go of him—after Ian’d left—Tierney had gone numb, except for the parts of him that hurt from Ian’s fists. But that was physical pain, which was fine. He could deal. The emotional pain would kill him once he started feeling it again.
He had to get home before that happened. To the oblivion bourbon offered. One of the guys on the team gave him a ride back to his car, right in front of Ian’s place.
Whatever.
Before taking off, he had to rest his head on the steering wheel for a minute, squeezing his eyes shut and fighting off the first wave of his returning emotions. The little creatures he’d learned to keep trapped inside. The inmates he kept under lock and key so he could fulfill the role he’d been assigned. The role he’d thought he’d escape only if the stars aligned and Ian gave him the out.
Fourteen years of sacrifice and avoidance in his past and never letting himself look for another man because he had his fallback. Fourteen years of glory holes and women he didn’t really give a fuck about. Fourteen years of hiding, and being a lying, homophobic dick.
Fourteen fucking years.
Yeah, he was done with rugby.
It was a little over an hour until Dalton would meet the guy his boss, Ian (and Ian’s boyfriend Sam) had set him up with. He’d been unable to think of anything else since lunch, and now that it was the end of the day, he’d finally given himself busywork and let his mind dwell on his first real date in five years. While working his way through college, he’d only had time for casual encounters of the sexual kind and the occasional friend with benefits, so he was a little out of practice in the dating department. Thank God Ian and Sam were going to the Exposed Innerds concert too, so it wouldn’t just be him and the unknown guy named Miller.
Except, judging by the phone call he’d overheard earlier—Ian really didn’t understand the concept of a “private voice”—Sam and Ian might not be going. Not unless Ian apologized for whatever he’d done.
What had he done?
“I need to see Ian Cully. Now.”
At the sound of the voice behind him, Dalton dropped the forms he’d been tallying. Oh no. He was the face of the office, the first thing people saw when they walked in, and it was important to give the proper impression. Sucking in a quick, calming breath, he spun his chair around, fixing his most professional smile on his face.
“May I help you?” Even as he said it, the guy’s body language was answering, telling him he couldn’t help. This man considered himself a Very Important Person, and Dalton a Lowly Receptionist (somewhat like Lowly Worm, but gainfully employed). Forget that he wasn’t one—his official title was Office Specialist Two—he looked like a receptionist. Visitors like this saw Dalton sitting behind a faux-wood-decaled desk in the entryway of an institutional suite in a state government building and made the assumption. The man’s dismissive gaze flickered over Dalton, then focused on Ian’s door.
Ian’s not-quite-closed door.
Dalton immediately shifted gears, knowing from previous experience as an actual receptionist what was about to go down. Just as the visitor stepped forward, he stood, moving to block the man’s path.
Which allowed Dalton to really see him for the first time.
Troglodyte chic.
It just figured he’d find this guy attractive, didn’t it? Designer suit, artfully disarranged hair, muddy green eyes, and beard scruff. Not to mention beautiful bone structure, albeit under a slightly puffy face.
Ignore.
“I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Cully is on a very important call at the moment, and can’t be disturbed. As a matter of fact, he’s booked for the rest of the day. May I schedule an appointment for you next week?”
The visitor stopped and narrowed his eyes, then took a step forward, invading Dalton’s personal space.
Oh, please. He’d become immune to that intimidation tactic long ago. He smiled pleasantly and held his ground.
So did his opponent, for another half minute. Long enough for Dalton to get a whiff of stale sweat and alcohol. Then the man stood down, losing his suspicious squint and revealing how bloodshot his eyes were. He backed off and ran a hand through his hair, turning his head to reveal a mashed, sticking-up section.