Chapter 2: The Daddy Debate: Whiskey, War Stories, and a Twink’s Misguided Fantasy
The air in The Rusty Nail tasted like regret and cheap disinfectant. Neon signs buzzed, casting shifting pools of red and blue on a floor sticky enough to peel boots off. Dean Rhodes hunched over a chipped table, scarred knuckles wrapped around a tumbler of whiskey so rough it burned going down. Opposite him, Jace Delaney mirrored his posture, a lopsided grin on his lean face.
"…so the fucking camel," Jace wheezed, wiping his eyes, "just sits down. Right there! In the middle of the goddamn firefight! Hajji’s scrambling, we’re pissing ourselves laughing, tracer rounds zipping overhead…" He took a gulp of his own whiskey. "Pure fucking chaos."
Dean snorted, a rare, genuine amusement softening the hard lines around his eyes. "Should've requisitioned it. Extra cargo capacity."
"Right? Furry bastard saved our asses from lugging that ammo crate another klick." Jace shook his head. "Good times."
The faded jukebox wailed a distorted guitar solo. The booth’s cracked leather groaned as someone slid in beside Dean. A waft of cloying cologne and something synthetic hit his nostrils. Dean didn't turn, but his shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly.
"Daddy," a breathy voice purred, right by his ear. A slender hand, nails painted black, traced the rim of his glass. "Buy a lonely boy a drink?"
Dean finally turned his head. The kid couldn't have been twenty. Silver glitter sparkled on sharp cheekbones beneath harsh bar light. Tight black shirt, ripped jeans riding low on narrow hips. Eyes wide and hungry. "Not your daddy, kid," Dean said, his voice a low rumble like distant thunder, devoid of malice but utterly final.
The glittering boy pouted, leaning closer. "C'mon. Saw you from across the bar. You look like you could really use some company. Someone to… unwrap." His fingers brushed Dean's thick forearm, tracing the dark hair. "Take me home. I'll make it worth your while."
Dean gently but firmly removed the hand. "Appreciate the offer. Headin' home alone tonight." His gaze was steady, offering no room for negotiation.
The kid’s face fell. He looked at Jace, who just raised his eyebrows and took another sip, staying out of it. "Your loss," the kid muttered, sliding out of the booth with a theatrical sigh, the glitter catching the light as he disappeared back into the smoky haze.
Jace watched him go, then turned back to Dean, a slow smirk spreading. "Daddy, huh? That's a new one. Usually it's 'sir' or 'bear' or just terrified silence."
Dean grunted, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "Kid's got imagination."
"Not your type?" Jace prodded, leaning forward conspiratorially.
Dean met his friend's gaze. A flicker of dry humor in his own eyes. "Not even close. Too… twinkly."
Jace barked a laugh. "Right. Forgot. You prefer 'em built like brick shithouses who can pin you down and make you scream like a banshee." He said it loud enough to carry slightly, a soldier's bluntness cutting through the bar noise.
Dean didn't flinch. Just took another slow sip, the ice clinking. "Something like that. Prefer not to do the pinning."
Jace nodded knowingly. "Yeah, yeah. The infamous Rhodes endurance test. Saw the aftermath in Kandahar, remember? That crazy Danish contractor? What was his name? Bjorn? Looked like he bench-pressed trucks. Walked outta your room lookin' like he'd conquered Everest. You? Looked like you'd gone ten rounds with a combine harvester." He chuckled. "Staggered past my bunk heading for the showers. Walking funny, but grinning like a goddamn lunatic."
Dean’s lips twitched. A rare, private memory surfacing. "Bjorn knew his business." His voice dropped slightly, roughened by whiskey and recollection. "Man knew how to use every fuckin' inch."
"Christ, don't I know it," Jace groaned, half-mocking, half-awed. "Thin-ass walls in that FOB, man. Heard the whole goddamn symphony. The headboard slamming the wall like artillery. That low fucking growl of his. And you…" He pointed his glass at Dean. "I always figured you'd be the quiet type. Grunt, maybe. Nope. When he really got goin', buried deep? Sounded like you were bein' fuckin' exorcised. Loud. Real fuckin' loud, brother. All choked-off gasps turnin' into full-throated howls. Like you were tryin' to shake the damn building down."
Dean stared into his glass. A muscle jumped in his scarred jaw. Not embarrassment. Something hotter, more primal flickered in his eyes – the memory of that overwhelming pressure, that brutal stretch, the sheer fucking force of being taken. "Place held up," he murmured, the ghost of that savage satisfaction in his tone. "Solid construction."
Jace shook his head, still grinning. "Solid something. That Danish bastard wrecked you. Properly. Remember the next morning? You moved like your spine was fused." He mimed a stiff walk. "Could barely lift your goddamn rifle for patrol. Still nailed the quals."
"Did my job," Dean said flatly, but there was a glint in his eye. Pride, perhaps, in enduring. In taking it.
"Fuck yeah, you did." Jace raised his glass. "To Bjorn’s monster cock and Dean Rhodes' iron hole."
Dean clinked his glass against Jace's, a faint smirk finally breaking through. "Fuck you, Delaney."
They drank. The easy camaraderie settled back over them, a comfortable silence punctuated by the jukebox and the low rumble of the bar. Dean leaned back, the worn leather creaking. The encounter with the glittery kid felt distant, irrelevant. This was his world. Honesty. Bluntness. Men who understood the difference between a fuck and a fight, and appreciated when the lines blurred. Men who knew that sometimes, strength wasn't about holding the reins, but about weathering the fucking storm.
He drained his whiskey, the burn a familiar comfort. Monaco. The Prince. Silas Thorne’s crude directive echoed in his mind: 'Hope you brought lube.' A different kind of mission. Different stakes. But the core requirement? Endurance. Taking it. Absorbing pressure. He flexed the hand not holding the glass, feeling the phantom ache of old impacts, the deep-seated thrum of readiness. He could handle ten inches. He could handle a prince. He just needed to find out how much noise the palace walls could take.
"Another round?" Jace asked, nodding towards the bar.
Dean pushed his empty glass forward. "Yeah. One more. Before the fucking glitter brigade descends again." His gaze swept the bar, landing for a second on a bulky guy nursing a beer near the pool table. Assessing. Instinctive. Finding nothing of interest, he looked back at Jace. "So, this camel…"