Chapter 3: Blackout Birthday
The buzz of the tattoo machine had just faded from his nerves when Marco knocked on the frame of his station door. “It’s six-thirty. Shop’s closed. Let’s go.”
Jace was meticulously cleaning his workspace, the routine a sacrament. “Go where?”
“Dinner. It’s your birthday, dumbass. Stephanie made reservations.”
Jace grunted, a non-committal sound. Birthdays were a minefield of expectations he’d rather avoid. But Stephanie had that look in her eye lately, a secretive sparkle he knew better than to challenge. He shoved his hands in his pockets, following Marco out into the cooling evening.
The Riot looked the same as ever: dim, smoky, humming with a worn-out kind of energy. But as they pushed through the main door, Marco steered him not toward the bar, but to a scarred wooden door marked ‘PRIVATE’.
“Back room’s booked for a party,” Marco said, a grin playing on his lips.
Before Jace could process it, Marco shoved the door open.
A roar of sound and light hit him. “SURPRISE!”
The small room was packed. Familiar faces spilled from the worn leather couches, crowded around the small round table, leaned against walls papered with peeling Fugazi and Black Flag posters. Luna was there, blowing a noisemaker. Cassandra waved, Evan beside her looking slightly out of place. A few other tattoo artists from neighboring shops, a couple of Stephanie’s bubbly friends from the café, all yelling and laughing.
And at the center of it, beaming, her messy bun slightly lopsided, was Stephanie. She launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. “You didn’t suspect a thing, did you?”
He held her, inhaling the scent of sugar and vanilla that always clung to her. “Not a thing,” he lied, his voice rough. He’d suspected something, but not this. Not this sheer, overwhelming volume of affection aimed directly at him.
A heavy hand clapped his shoulder. “Happy birthday, brother.” It was Leo, an old friend from a life Jace didn’t talk about, his knuckles scarred, his smile genuine. Seeing him here, vetted and welcomed by Stephanie, tightened something in Jace’s chest.
“Drink!” someone yelled. The bartender, a grizzled man named Rusty who never smiled, slid a full glass of whisky across the table to Jace with a nod. It was his usual, the good stuff Rusty kept under the counter.
The night became a warm, noisy blur. Marco, the unspoken master of ceremonies, started a drinking game that involved complicated rules and rapid-fire toasts. Jace’s glass never seemed to empty. Every time he took a sip, Rusty or Marco or Cass was there with the bottle.
The alcohol was a slow, sweet burn in his veins, melting the permanent knot between his shoulder blades. He found himself on the couch, grinning, as Leo launched into a story.
“—so this idiot,” Leo said, pointing a beer bottle at Jace, “decides the best way to get back his fucking backpack isn’t to ask, but to climb up the damn drainage pipe to the second-story window. In the rain.”
The room erupted. Stephanie was perched on the arm of the couch, her eyes wide with delight. “He fell, didn’t he?”
“He got the bag,” Jace interjected, his words starting to slur just a fraction. “That’s what matters.”
“He got the bag, and a broken wrist, and seven stitches in his chin from the rose bush he landed in,” Leo finished, howling with laughter.
Jace laughed with them, a real, full-bodied sound that felt foreign and good in his throat. He was floating, untethered from the usual weight of his own thoughts. The room was golden-hazy, the laughter a pleasant buzz in his ears.
His eyes kept finding Stephanie. She was everywhere, refilling snacks, pulling Evan into a conversation with Luna, her laughter ringing like a bell over the din. Every time she passed him, her hand would brush his neck, his arm, a secret touch that fed the warmth inside him.
As the night deepened, the warmth turned into a different kind of heat. His observations, usually so internal, began to leak out.
When Evan made a comment about the music, Jace leaned forward, pointing at him. “You… you wear expensive socks. I can tell.” The table roared. Evan blinked, then chuckled awkwardly.
Jace didn’t care. The filter was gone. The careful control he exercised, the silent vigilance, had been drowned in good whisky and better company. His hand, which had been resting on the back of the couch, found Stephanie’s waist as she squeezed past. He didn’t let go. He pulled her gently, insistently, until she tumbled sideways onto his lap with a soft “oof!”
She laughed, adjusting herself, but he held her fast, one arm a solid band around her stomach, his other hand splayed possessively on her thigh. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, breathing her in. “You smell like cake.”
“That’s because I baked you one, you lush,” she said, but she leaned back into him, her fingers threading through the hair at the nape of his neck.
“Should get it now,” he mumbled into her skin. His lips found the sensitive spot below her ear. He felt her shiver.
“Later,” she whispered.
He didn’t want later. The alcohol had honed his desire into a single, blunt point. Her weight on him, the warmth of her through her clothes, the private scent of her skin amidst the public smell of beer and smoke—it was a focused agony. His hand on her thigh crept higher, his thumb stroking the inseam of her jeans.
She caught his wrist, not pushing it away, but holding it still. “Jace,” she said, her voice low. A warning and a promise.
He ignored the warning. He turned her face towards his and kissed her. It wasn’t like the kiss in the parking lot. This was slow, deep, and unmistakably carnal, a lazy claiming in front of everyone. Someone whistled. Marco chuckled and said, “Alright, get a room you two.”
Jace broke the kiss, resting his forehead against hers. His green eyes were glassy, darkened with want. “You planned this,” he accused softly, his voice a gravelly rumble only she could hear.
“The party? Yeah.”
“This,” he said, and shifted her subtly on his lap so she could feel the hard, insistent pressure of his erection beneath her. “You got me drunk and soft so you could have your way with me.”
She laughed, a breathless sound. “Is it working?”
In answer, he tightened his arm around her waist and stood up, lifting her with him as if she weighed nothing. The room cheered louder. He swayed for a second, the world tilting.
“We’re leaving,” he announced to no one and everyone.
“Your cake!” Cassandra called.
“He’ll get it later!” Stephanie waved, her face flushed as Jace maneuvered them toward the door, his hands firmly on her hips, steering her ahead of him.
The cool night air was a slap. He pushed her against the brick wall of the alley beside the bar, his body caging hers, his mouth descending on hers again. This kiss was hungry, all tongue and heat and whisky. He ground his hips against her, a slow, deliberate rhythm.
“Jace, not here… the car…”
“Can’t wait.” His hands were under her shirt, pushing up her bra, his palms rough and warm on her skin. He bent his head, his mouth closing over the lace of her bra, and she gasped, her head thumping back against the brick.
“You are…” he muttered, sucking at the fabric, “…a terrible influence.”
He fumbled with the button of her jeans, his coordination shot. Swearing softly, he rested his forehead on her shoulder, his breath coming hard. The frantic energy seemed to leave him all at once, replaced by a drunken, overwhelming urgency tangled with frustration.
She took his face in her hands, making him look at her. In the sulphur-yellow glow of the security light, his eyes were unfocused, vulnerable. The fierce control was utterly gone, stripped away by the night, leaving only the raw, wanting core of him. It was terrifying and beautiful.
“Car,” she said again, firmly. “Now.”
He nodded, a clumsy, heavy motion.
In the car, he was pliant. She had to buckle his seatbelt. He watched her, his head lolling against the headrest, as she drove them home. His hand rested on her leg, unmoving, just a warm, heavy weight.
Inside their apartment, he stumbled over the threshold. She guided him to the bed, where he sat heavily. He looked up at her as she stood between his knees, his gaze tracing her body with a drunken, reverent intensity.
“Steph.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m really drunk.”
“I know, baby.”
“But I’m not too drunk.” His hands came up to her hips, dragging her closer. He pressed his face against her stomach, his words muffled by her sweater. “Not for this. Not for you. Never for you.”
He looked up, and the sheer, unguarded need in his expression stole her breath. It wasn’t just lust. It was a desperate, anchoring plea. After the performance of the party, after the laughter and the stories, this was the silent truth beneath it. He needed her, not just her body, but her presence as his ballast.
He unbuttoned her jeans with surprising, solemn focus, pushing them down her hips along with her panties. He didn’t move to take his own clothes off. Instead, he pulled her onto his lap, her knees on the bed on either side of his thighs. He was still fully dressed, rough denim against her inner thighs.
He kissed her again, deep and slow, as his fingers found her, sliding through her wetness with a groan that vibrated against her mouth. “See?” he slurred. “Not too drunk.”
His fingers slid inside her, curling, and her hips jerked against his hand. She was already soaked, her arousal a slick, hot welcome against his skin. "Fuck, Jace," she gasped, her head dropping forward.
"Told you," he mumbled against her throat, his movements inside her becoming more purposeful. His thumb found her clit, rubbing rough, drunken circles that made her thighs shake. He was all blunt force and stripped technique, his usual precise control replaced by a single-minded hunger.
He shifted them both, twisting, until she was on her back on the mattress and he was looming over her, his clothes still on. He didn't bother undressing. He just yanked his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his cock, thick and ruddy in the low light. He spat into his palm, stroked himself once, twice, his eyes locked on hers.
"Need you," he growled, the words thick and raw. It wasn't a command. It was a confession.
He pushed her thighs apart, his weight settling between them. The broad head of his cock nudged against her, then pressed in. The stretch was breathtaking, a slow, burning invasion made more intense by his size and his lack of finesse. He didn't inch in; he sank deep with one relentless thrust, filling her completely, drawing a choked cry from her lungs.
He stilled, buried to the hilt, his body trembling. His forehead was beaded with sweat, his pupils blown wide. "So fucking perfect," he breathed, almost to himself. "This perfect, tight cunt. All mine."
Then he began to move. His rhythm was brutal, all driving power, each thrust punching the air from her lungs. The bedframe slammed against the wall in a steady, creaking beat. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging in, holding her in place for his relentless pace. The sound was obscene: the wet slap of skin on skin, his ragged grunts, her own sharp, gasped breaths.
"Yes," she urged, wrapping her legs around his waist, trying to match his force. "Just like that."
He fucked her with a frantic, drunken desperation, as if he was trying to climb inside her skin, to merge with her completely and escape everything else—the memory of Evan's smirk, the cold assessment in Elara Vance's eyes, the permanent storm inside his own head. His thrusts grew more erratic, deeper, his control shattering.
"Gonna come," he warned, his voice a broken scrape. "Gonna fill this sweet pussy up."
The vulgarity, the raw possession in his words, tipped her over the edge. Her orgasm ripped through her, a violent, clenching wave that made her back arch off the bed. She cried out, her nails scoring his shoulders through his shirt.
Feeling her clamp around him, he roared, a raw, unfiltered sound, and drove in one last time. He pulsed inside her, hot and endless, his body collapsing onto hers with a weight that drove the last shuddering echoes of pleasure from her.
He was heavy, solid, a sack of muscle and bone pinning her to the soaked sheets. He didn't move. His breath was hot and damp against her neck, his face buried there. She could feel his heart hammering against her ribs, a frantic drum gradually slowing.
After a long minute, he rolled off, landing on his back beside her with a groan. They lay in silence, their breathing the only sound in the dark room. The smell of sex and whisky and sweat hung in the air.
His hand found hers on the sheet, their fingers lacing together. His palm was damp.
"Your shirt's still on," she whispered, her voice hoarse.
"Mm."
"You're a mess."
"I know." A pause. "You planned the party."
"I did."
He turned his head to look at her. In the dark, his face was open, unguarded, the lines of it softened. "It was... it was really good, Steph. Thank you."
The simple sincerity of it, from him, was more intimate than anything that had just happened. She squeezed his hand. "You're welcome."
His eyes drifted closed. "That woman today. The client. Elara."
"What about her?"
"She wants a portrait of her dead son. On her chest." He swallowed. "She looked at me like I was a machine. Like she was ordering a fucking watch."
Stephanie waited, sensing the unease beneath his words.
"She has his eyes," Jace murmured, almost to himself. "The son. In the photo. He had his mother's eyes."
He fell silent again, his breathing deepening. The alcohol and the exertion were pulling him under. Just as he seemed to slip into sleep, his grip on her hand tightened.
"Don't let me fuck it up," he whispered, the words slurred and thick with impending unconsciousness.
Then he was gone, his body going slack, his breath evening out into the rhythms of deep sleep. Stephanie lay beside him, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the city outside. Her body ached in the best way. His confession about the client, so small and vulnerable, echoed in the quiet room. She knew it wasn't just about the tattoo. It was about everything—the anger he carried, the past he outran, the fear that he would break the fragile, beautiful thing they'd built.
She turned onto her side, propping her head on her hand to watch him sleep. In the dim light from the window, the intricate tapestry of his tattoos was a landscape of shadows. She traced the lines of one with her eyes, a complex pattern that swirled over his shoulder and down his arm. He'd told her once it represented chaos and order, knotted together so you could never separate them.
She understood now, more than ever. The chaos of the night, the raw, frenetic energy of his possession, was knotted inseparably with the quiet order of his trust, his sleep here beside her. She kissed his shoulder, tasting salt and skin.
Then she got up, moving quietly. She found a washcloth in the bathroom, ran it under warm water. She returned to the bed and began to clean him, gently wiping the sweat from his neck and chest, maneuvering his heavy limbs to get his jeans the rest of the way off. He murmured but didn't wake.
She cleaned herself, pulled on one of his t-shirts, and slid back into bed beside his warmth. She curled into his side, her head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. Outside, a siren wailed in the distance, a fleeting echo of the evening's chaos before silence swallowed it again. She closed her eyes, holding onto him, the solid fact of him, as sleep began to pull her under too.
Tomorrow would come. The portrait, the memory in a mother's cold eyes, the vague threat of a man like Evan. But here, now, in the dark, there was just this. The rise and fall of his chest. The scent of their shared skin. The unspoken promise, as tangible as his arm around her, that they would face whatever came tangled together, chaos and order, one and the same.
The unspoken promise, as tangible as his arm around her, that they would face whatever came tangled together, chaos and order, one and the same. She let that certainty soothe her into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Dawn was a grey suggestion at the window when she woke. Jace was still out, his breathing a low rumble. Her body felt pleasantly used, a familiar soreness between her thighs. She watched him for a long time, the way his eyelashes cast faint shadows, the absolute peace on a face so often carved with tension. The party had been a success. He’d been happy, truly happy, in a way she didn’t see often enough.
But the look in his eyes when he’d murmured about the client, Elara—that had been the real gift. Not his drunken laughter, but that moment of vulnerable trust. She wanted to give him something in return. Something that was entirely theirs, a secret language written on skin and breath.
She slipped from the bed and padded to the kitchen. The lemon-cardamom cake she’d baked sat under a glass dome on the counter, rich and golden. She cut two thick slices, placed them on plates, and carried them back to the bedroom. The scent of citrus and spice trailed her.
She set the plates on the nightstand and crawled back onto the bed, straddling his hips. He stirred as her weight settled on him. His hands came up automatically to grip her thighs, his green eyes blinking open, clouded with sleep and the faint, pounding remnants of the whisky.
“Morning,” she said softly.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his voice shredded. “My head is a war crime.”
“I have cake.”
“You’re an angel.” He tried to sit up, wincing. She shifted back, letting him prop himself against the headboard. He took the plate, forking a huge bite. He chewed slowly, his eyes closing. “Christ. This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
“Better than Rusty’s whisky?”
“Different category.” He ate another bite, watching her over the plate. “Did I… did I have a good time last night?”
“You did. You were charming. In a loud, handsy, declarative kind of way.”
A faint blush crept up his neck. “I remember the car. The alley. This.” He gestured between them with his fork. “Bits are foggy.”
“The important bits are clear.” She took his empty plate, setting it aside with hers. She didn’t move from her perch on his legs. The thin morning light caught the dust motes swirling around them.
“Thank you,” he said again, his gaze serious now, all trace of the drunken chaos gone. “For all of it. For knowing what I needed.”
She leaned forward, bracing her hands on his shoulders. The sheet pooled around his waist. She could feel him, already half-hard beneath her. “I have one more present.”
“Yeah?” His hands slid up her back, under the hem of the t-shirt she wore—his t-shirt.
“Yeah.” She kissed him, a slow, deep kiss that tasted of cake and sleep. “But you have to be sober for this one. And you have to listen.”
“I’m listening.” His thumbs stroked the dimples at the base of her spine.
She sat back up, pulling the t-shirt over her head in one fluid motion. The air was cool on her skin. She watched his eyes darken, his focus sharpening, the artist in him cataloging the curve of her breast, the flush on her skin. “I want you to fuck my ass, Jace.”
He went very still. His hands stopped moving. The only sound was the distant thrum of a garbage truck on the street below.
“You don’t have to,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. It was a rare thing, an act they’d explored only a handful of times. It was overwhelming for her, a surrender so complete it bordered on frightening. For him, it was a trust he carried like blown glass.
“I know I don’t have to. I want to. It’s your birthday.” She traced the snarling jaw of the dragon tattooed on his chest. “I want to give you that. All of me. Every part.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. The control was snapping back into place, but it was a different kind now—fiercely protective, meticulously attentive. He nodded, once. “Okay. Lie down.”
He moved with a fluid, purposeful grace that belied his headache. He retrieved the bottle of silicone lubricant from the nightstand drawer. He warmed it between his palms, his movements ritualistic. He knelt between her legs, his gaze holding hers.
“Tell me the second it’s too much.” It wasn’t a request.
“I will.”
He started with his mouth, his tongue laving her cunt until she was squirming and slick, her fingers tangled in his hair. He added one thick finger, then two, fucking her slowly with them, stretching her, preparing her body even as his gentle, relentless mouth softened her mind. He coated his fingers liberally with more lube, the cool slickness a shock. He traced her tight back entrance, a feather-light circle that made her gasp.
“Breathe, Steph,” he murmured, his breath hot against her inner thigh. “Just breathe for me.”
He pressed the pad of his thumb against the tiny furl of muscle, applying steady, inexorable pressure. It burned, a sharp, foreign intrusion. She hissed, her back arching.
“Shhh, I’ve got you.” He didn’t stop. He worked his thumb inside, just to the first knuckle, and held it there, letting her body fight and then slowly, reluctantly, accept the invasion. “You’re doing so good. Taking it so perfect.”
He withdrew and slicked two fingers. He pressed them together, pushing them into her cunt again, fucking her with them while his other hand returned to her ass. This time, a single finger breached her, sliding deeper alongside the full, stretched feeling of his fingers inside her pussy. The dual sensation was maddening, a flood of too much. A whimper escaped her throat.
“I know, baby. I know it’s a lot.” He crooned the words, his voice a low, hypnotic rasp. He scissored the finger inside her ass gently, the burn flaring white-hot. “You’re so fucking tight here. Christ. You feel incredible.”
He added more lube, coating himself, stroking his cock until it gleamed. He positioned himself at her entrance, the broad head nudging against that burning, stretched ring of muscle. He looked down at her, his green eyes blazing with a intensity that was both carnal and reverent.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
She did. Her eyes were wide, swimming with unshed tears from the ache.
He pushed forward, just an inch. The stretch was searing, brutal, a feeling of being split open. She cried out, a sharp, broken sound.
“Stop, stop, Jace, I can’t—”
“You can.” He froze, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding still. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He lowered his mouth to hers, kissing her with a devastating sweetness. “You’re taking me so fucking well. My brave girl. My good girl. Just relax for me. Let me in.”
His words were a balm and a spur. He kissed away the tear that escaped her eye. He didn’t move, just let her adjust to the impossible fullness, the shocking intimacy of his invasion.
When the panic in her eyes subsided to a shaky acceptance, he sank another inch deeper. The burn intensified, a bright, shocking pain that blurred into a profound, submissive pleasure. He was everywhere, filling parts of her that felt untouched, claiming her in a way that left no room for anything else—not the ghost of Elara Vance’s son, not Evan’s smirk, not the world outside their room.
“That’s it,” he breathed, his forehead damp against hers. “Take all of me. I need you to take it. Need to be deep inside you like this.”
He moved then, a slow, shallow withdrawal followed by a deeper, more penetrating thrust. She gasped, her nails digging into the hard muscle of his arms. It hurt. It was overwhelming. But beneath the burn was a raw, psychedelic current of pleasure, a sense of total possession that unspooled something fundamental in her core.
“Fuck, Jace…”
“I know. I feel it.” His rhythm began to build, each thrust gaining confidence as her body opened for him, accepting him. The slick, filthy sound of his cock driving into her ass filled the room. “This perfect, tight ass is mine. Only mine. You give this to me and I’ll never fucking take it for granted.”
His words unraveled her. The pain receded, consumed by a tidal wave of sheer, screaming sensation. He fucked her with a focused, deep-paced rhythm that left no part of her untouched. He hooked a hand under her knee, hitching her leg higher, changing the angle, and she saw stars.
“Right there,” she sobbed. “Oh god, right there.”
“Come for me,” he growled, his control fraying. “Come on my cock while I’m in your ass. Do it.”
His command, the filthy, beautiful reality of it, triggered her climax. It wasn’t a wave; it was detonation. Her body seized around the part of him inside her cunt, milking empty air, while her ass clamped down on his driving length. The convulsions were so violent they blurred her vision.
Her scream was muffled by his mouth. He swallowed the sound, his own release tearing from him with a guttural shout. He plunged deep, as deep as he could go, and held there, pumping his hot come into that forbidden channel, marking her in the most primal way he could.
He collapsed, careful even in his ruin to not crush her, rolling to his side and pulling her with him. They were a tangled, slick, trembling mess. He held her face, wiping the tears and sweat from her cheeks with his thumbs.
“Okay?” he whispered, his voice wrecked.
She could only nod, burrowing into his chest. The aftershocks were still rippling through her. He kissed her hair, her temple, her closed eyelids.
They lay like that for a long time, until their breathing settled and the winter sun grew stronger, painting a bright rectangle on the floor. The cake sat forgotten. The world outside, with its lawyers and its judgements, felt very far away.
Finally, he stirred. “I have that consult with Elara Vance at three. The stencil mock-up.”
The words were a cold splash of reality. Stephanie felt him tense, the sanctuary of the morning already receding. She ran a hand down the hard plane of his stomach. “You’ll be amazing. You always are.”
He caught her hand, brought it to his lips. “Stay with me today. At the shop.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a need. She heard the edge in his voice, the one that had whispered don’t let me fuck it up in the dark.
“Okay,” she said.
By 2:45, the shop was prepped. The stainless steel gleamed. The needles were sterilized and bagged. Jace had transferred his detailed sketch of Gabriel Vance’s face to stencil paper. It was flawless, capturing not just the boy’s features, but the particular light in his eyes, the hopeful quirk of his smile.
Jace stood motionless before his station, staring at the stencil. He was dressed in simple black, his hair tied back, every line of his body rigid. Stephanie sat on the worn client couch in the corner, a sketchbook in her lap, pretending to draw. She could feel the storm gathering in him.
The bell chimed. Elara Vance walked in, right on time. She wore another impeccably tailored suit, her gaze as cool and assessing as it had been two days before. Her eyes swept past Marco, past the artwork on the walls, and landed on Jace.
“Mr. McIntyre.”
“Ms. Vance.” He didn’t smile. He gestured to the chair. “The stencil is ready.”
She approached, her heels clicking on the concrete floor. She looked at the detailed outline of her son’s face. For a long moment, she was silent. Her expression did not change, but Stephanie, watching from the corner, saw the woman’s throat constrict once, a hard, painful-looking swallow.
“It is adequate,” Elara said, her voice betraying nothing.
Jace’s knuckles whitened where he gripped the edge of his tray. “Adequate.”
“Proceed.” She began unbuttoning her crisp white blouse with methodical fingers, revealing a simple black bra and the pale, unmarked skin over her heart.
Jace snapped on his gloves. The machine whined to life. He applied the stencil to her skin, his touch professional, impersonal. He leaned her back in the chair. He dipped his needle.
He took a breath, his eyes meeting Stephanie’s across the room. She gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod.
He looked down at the face of the dead boy, at the composed, granite features of the mother. He pressed the needle to her skin, and began to make the first permanent mark.