Chapter 8: Thursday at the Mall
The food court hums under the high glass ceiling, the same polished tiles, the same chrome tables, the same drift of shoppers between kiosks. A three-day-old smell of fried chicken and pretzels hangs in the air. Derek leans against the counter of the smoothie place, one foot up on the rail, scrolling nothing on his phone. Leo stands beside him, shoulders back, neon-blue shorts riding high on his thighs, and types something with both thumbs.
"You're not even looking at the menu," Derek says.
"I already know what I want."
"Then why are you typing?"
Leo ignores him. A group of middle-aged women passes, trailing perfume and shopping bags, and one of them glances at Leo's bare torso and says something to her friend in a low voice. Leo doesn't look up.
Derek watches him a moment, then goes back to his own phone. A minute passes. Two.
"So," Derek says, "I had a thing yesterday at the gym. The shower."
Leo grunts, still typing.
"There's this guy, volleyball guy, I've seen him around. Older, maybe twenty-five. Big shoulders, real quiet face." Derek shifts his weight. "He's in the shower, just standing under the spray with his back to me, and he's got this ass on him. Compact, tight, the kind that catches the light when he bends for the soap. And I just walked over."
Leo's thumbs pause. He looks up. "Just walked over?"
"Just walked over. He didn't react. I got on my knees behind him and put my mouth on him."
"On his ass?"
"On his hole. He smelled like soap and sweat and that locker-room musk you don't get anywhere else. I licked him for a while, slow, and he just stood there with his hands on the tile and let me. Then he turned around."
Leo puts his phone against his chest. "And?"
"And his cock was already hard. Not fully, but getting there. So I took it in my mouth and sucked him off right there, under the shower, water running down my back. He came in my mouth and I swallowed it. He didn't say a word the whole time. Just nodded at me when he was done and went back to his shower like nothing happened."
Leo watches him for a long moment, then nods and goes back to his phone. "Good find."
"That's what I'm saying. The quiet ones are the best."
A man passes close behind Derek. He's about twenty-five, a little stocky, in a grey T-shirt and torn jeans, walking fast with a takeaway bag in one hand. As he goes by, his open palm connects with Derek's bare right cheek. It's a light slap, almost casual, but it lands with a clear smack.
Derek turns around. Leo looks up from his phone. The man is already two steps past, not slowing down.
"Excuse me," Derek says, calm. "Did you do it?"
The man stops. He turns. He looks at Derek's face, then down at the pink mark forming on the exposed curve of his cheek, then back up. "Yeah. I did it."
Derek doesn't get angry. His expression stays neutral, open, the way someone looks when a stranger asks for the time.
"Okay," Derek says. "Sir, do you need anything else?"
The man studies him. He's got a solid build, thick forearms, a dark stubble line, and flat grey eyes. He steps closer, close enough that Derek has to tip his head up slightly.
"Turn around."
Derek turns. The man's hands land on his cheeks, fingers spreading, squeezing the muscle. He runs his palms over Derek's ass like he's testing fruit at a market, slow and deliberate. Leo watches over his shoulder, one thumb resting on his screen, bored.
"Bend over a little," the man says.
Derek obeys. He puts his hands on his knees and arches his back, pushing his ass out. His shorts tighten over the curve, the fabric riding up, and the man hooks a thumb under the hem and pulls it aside, exposing him.
"Haven't got a plug in," the man observes.
"It's my rest day," Derek says, matter of fact. "The competition's done for the week."
The man slides a finger between Derek's cheeks, dry, pressing against his hole once. Derek's breath catches but he holds still.
"Good elasticity," the man says. "You're starting to relax."
"I try."
The man pulls his finger out and wipes it on his own jeans. "Get up."
Derek straightens. The man is looking at him now, really looking, from his bare shoulders down to his sneakers, and there's a weight in the attention that Derek recognizes. He's been assessed like this before. It doesn't bother him.
"You want to suck my cock," the man says. It's not a question.
"Yes, sir."
The man nods. He looks around the food court, finds a bench against the wall under a potted fern, and walks over to it. He sits down with his legs spread, the torn denim straining across his thighs, and unzips his jeans. His cock is already hard, thick and dark-veined, curving up against his stomach.
Derek walks over without hesitation. He kneels between the man's spread legs on the polished tile, puts his hands on the man's thighs, and takes the cock in his mouth. The man smells like laundry detergent and sweat, a clean, sharp smell. Derek opens his throat and sinks down, taking him deep on the first pass.
The man exhales through his nose. He puts a hand on the back of Derek's head, not pushing, just resting there.
"That's it. Slow."
Derek works him slowly, like the man asked. He takes him down to the root, his nose buried in the dark hair, then draws back until the head pops free, then sinks again. Spit runs down his chin. He keeps his eyes half closed, focused on the weight of it, the heat, the way the man's thighs tense under his palms.
The man watches him. The food court continues around them. A family walks past with a stroller, and the father glances at the scene, then away, indifferent. Two teenage girls giggle near the pretzel stand, one of them elbowing the other, but they don't come any closer.
Leo stands where he left him by the smoothie counter, phone in hand. He watches Derek service the stranger with the same expression he might give a passing cloud. He types something, waits for the reply, types again.
"Turn around," the man says.
Derek pulls off with a wet sound and wipes his mouth. "Yes, sir."
"Let me see your hole."
Derek kneels and bends forward, arching his back, presenting himself. The man leans in and spreads him with both thumbs, examining him openly. He runs a finger along the seam of his perineum, presses the pad against his hole, and Derek rocks back into it, a small automatic motion.
"Plenty of practice," the man says.
"Every day, sir."
The man pushes his finger inside, dry, and Derek takes the fullness with a long exhale. He holds still while the man fingers him, slow and methodical, stretching him. The man adds a second finger, scissors them slightly, then a third, and Derek's hips begin to move of their own accord, rolling back into the rhythm.
"You're tight for someone who practices every day."
"It's my rest day," Derek repeats, and there's a smile in his voice.
The man withdraws his fingers and wipes them on Derek's shorts. "Stand up."
Derek stands. The man points at the bench. "Bend over it."
Derek walks to the bench, bends at the waist, and braces his hands on the seat. He spreads his legs wide. The man stands behind him, pulls the shorts down to his ankles with one tug, and spits into his palm. He works the spit over his cock, one hand pumping slowly, then presselessness. He lines up and pushes in.
Derek's breath goes out of him in a long, steady stream. The man is thick, heavier than Marcus, and it takes a moment for his body to accept the width. The man waits, one hand on Derek's hip, until Derek's shoulders relax and he pushes back in invitation.
"Yeah," Derek says, quiet. "Go ahead."
The man starts moving. He fucks him slow at first, deep, deliberate thrusts that drive Derek's hips against the bench with each push. The bench creaks in rhythm. Derek's head drops between his arms and he makes a low noise with every drive, not quite a moan, almost absent, the way you breathe out when you're carrying something heavy.
The food court flows past. A security guard walks by, coffee in hand, and doesn't slow down. The two teenage girls have moved on. The man picks up speed, his grip tightening on Derek's hips, his breath going short and rough behind him.
Leo's phone buzzes. He looks at the screen, types a reply, and puts the phone in his pocket. He watches the man fuck his friend for another thirty seconds, expression flat, then pulls out his phone again and opens the camera app.
"What are you doing?" the man asks, hand still moving, not missing a thrust.
"Posting it live," Leo says, holding the phone up, framing the two of them against the fern. "Facebook. Unless you want me to stop."
"Don't stop."
Derek moans, a real one this time, as the man drives into him deep and holds. "Leo," he says, breathless. "You're not."
"I am. You're doing great, by the way." Leo pans the camera slowly across Derek's arched back, then down to where the man's cock disappears into him, slick now, obscene. "Say hi to the boys."
"Fuck you, Leo."
"Noted."
The man laughs, a short sharp sound, and picks up his rhythm. He fucks Derek hard now, the slap of skin against skin filling the small space around the bench. Derek's arms are shaking. His head is down, his voice a stream of short grunts that come out without meaning, just sound.
Leo lowers the phone. "Marcus is watching," he says, reading the screen. "He says your form's off. You're rounding your lower back."
"Fuck off," Derek says, but he arches his back differently, flattens the curve, takes the thrusts deeper.
The man groans. His hips stutter, then he's coming inside Derek with long, hitching drives, hands white-knuckle tight on Derek's hips. Derek breathes through it, steady, waiting until the man pulls out.
"Good," the man says, and zips his jeans. "Thank you."
"You're welcome, sir."
The man pats him once on the ass, the same side as the slap, and walks off into the crowd without looking back. Derek stays bent over the bench for a moment, breathing, letting the emptiness settle, then straightens and pulls his shorts up.
"Did you really post that?" Derek asks.
"Of course not," Leo says. He pockets the phone, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth. "But it got you to fix your posture."
"You're an asshole."
"I'm a teammate. There's a difference."
Derek shakes his head, smiling despite himself. He turns away from the bench, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and sees Jared coming through the main entrance. Jared's wearing his black tank top and the short shorts, a duffel bag over one shoulder, walking toward them with that clean, confident stride he's developed over the past months.
"Hey," Derek calls. "You're late."
"Train ran over." Jared reaches them, drops his duffel at his feet. He's about to say something else when he looks past Derek's shoulder and freezes.
The stocky man in the torn jeans has not walked into the crowd. He's stopped at the edge of the food court, ten feet away, and turned around. He's watching Jared.
"Little brother," he says.
Jared's face goes through three expressions in a single second: surprise, then recognition, then something bright and private. He takes a step forward.
"Alan."
The man steps forward too. They're the same height now, the stocky man and the tall athlete, and Alan reaches out and grips Jared's shoulder once, hard.
"Fourteen months," Alan says. "You've gotten bigger. And what the hell was that, exactly?" He jerks his chin at Derek.
Jared looks at Derek, then back at his brother. A wide, slow grin spreads across his face.
"That's Derek. My teammate." He gestures. "Alan, this is Derek. Derek, this is my brother."
Derek blinks. His hand goes to the memory of the man's weight inside him, the stretch, the deep rhythm of it. "Your brother."
"Just got back from Fort Irwin," Jared says, and there's something careful in the way he says it, like a door opening very slowly. "Alan doesn't participate in any of the free use stuff. He never has."
Alan looks at Derek, flat grey eyes unreadable. "I don't judge it. I just don't take part." He looks at Derek's hole, visible between the curves of his cheeks, then back up at his face. "But you didn't need to tell me twice."
"I offered," Derek says. "It was a good offer."
"It was." Alan's mouth shifts almost imperceptibly. "You've got good form."
Derek's cheeks go warm for the first time.
Leo steps forward and offers his hand. "Leo. I was watching."
Alan shakes it once. "I know. I saw the phone."
"You didn't seem to mind."
"Didn't say I minded." Alan releases his hand and turns to Jared. "You said you wanted to show me the mall. Start walking."
"Now?" Jared asks.
"Now. I've been in the desert for a year and I want to see what my brother's made of." Alan looks at Derek and Leo, a flicker of appraisal passing over his face. "You two coming?"
Derek and Leo look at each other. Leo's eyebrows raise a fraction.
"Sure," Derek says. "We were just hanging out anyway."
Alan nods and starts walking, hands in his pockets, his torn jeans swaying with each stride. Jared falls into step beside him. Derek and Leo follow a few paces behind.
"Your brother's a character," Derek mutters.
Jared glances back over his shoulder, and there's something complicated in his expression, pride and mischief and a question he hasn't asked yet.
"Yeah," he says. "He is."
They cross the food court together, four of them now, strung out in a loose line. The bench where Derek bent over still sits against the wall under the fern, and the man's spit and come are already drying on the tile. Nobody looks back at it.