Chapter 1: Cheap Beer and Cheaper Intentions
The booth’s leather was cracked, split in seams that caught on Aaron’s jeans. He focused on that, the physical pull of fabric on fake leather, because it was easier than meeting anyone’s eyes. The bar air was a soup of stale beer and old fries, undercut by the sharp, clean scent of John’s cologne from across the table. It was a scent Aaron could pick out in a crowd, a geographic marker in the dim chaos.
“So Lee’s a tool,” Alex stated, not for the first time, tracing a watermark on the wood with a blunt finger. “A high-functioning, smug, entitled tool who probably still has his mommy pick his ties.”
“He’s in my Constitutional Law seminar,” Aaron murmured, his voice barely rising above the jukebox’s sad guitar. “He’s not… He’s articulate.”
“Articulate parasites are still parasites,” John said, not looking up from his phone. The blue light sculpted his face, all sharp angles and focused intensity. He took a slow sip of his whiskey, and Aaron watched the line of his throat work. “He argued last week that judicial review is a ‘historical accident.’ Full of shit, top to bottom.”
A warmth that had nothing to do with the cheap beer spread through Aaron’s chest. John had listened. John remembered.
The warmth curdled a second later when a hand landed on his shoulder.
“Burr! Thought that was you lurking in the shadows.”
Charles Lee slid into the booth beside him, too close, his body a long, insistent line against Aaron’s. He smelled of expensive gin and overly sweet aftershave.
“Lee,” John said flatly, not a greeting, just a designation of a foreign object.
“Laurens. Hamilton.” Charles nodded, his smile all practiced charm. “Debating the fate of the republic again, or just gossiping?”
“The republic’s holding,” Alex said, his eyes flicking to Aaron’s stiff posture. “Some of its citizens, however, are on thin ice.”
Charles laughed, a single, dismissive ‘ha,’ and turned his full attention to Aaron. His hand was still on Aaron’s shoulder. “Ignore them. I wanted to ask you about the notes from Monday. Mine are a disaster. You always have such a… meticulous hand.”
Under the table, hidden by the scarred wood and the long fall of the tablecloth, Charles’s other hand found Aaron’s thigh. The touch was a shock, a hot, possessive pressure through the denim. Aaron froze, his brain short-circuiting. This was attention. This was desire, pointed and physical. It felt less like an invitation and more like a claim, but his body, traitorously, responded to the sheer fact of it. Someone was touching him.
“I—I can email them,” Aaron managed, his voice tight.
“Better yet, let me buy you a drink and you can walk me through them now.” Charles’s fingers began a slow, creeping migration upward. “You’re a lifesaver, Aaron. I don’t know how I’d get through this semester without you.”
Aaron’s gaze snapped to John, who was watching the interaction over the rim of his glass. His expression was unreadable, a calm mask. He knows, Aaron thought, panic and shame twisting together. He knows what’s happening under this table. He sees how pathetic I am, just sitting here.
John set his glass down. The clack of it on the wood was a gunshot in their little booth.
“Lee.”
The word was quiet, but it cut through the bar’s murmur. Charles’s hand stopped moving, but didn’t retreat.
“Problem, Laurens?”
“Take your hand off him.” John’s voice was still low, almost conversational, but his eyes were dark pools in the neon glow. “Now.”
Charles’s smile turned condescending. “I think Aaron’s a big boy. He can speak for himself. Can’t you?”
All the air left Aaron’s lungs. He was pinned, a specimen under twin microscopes—Charles’s smug appraisal and John’s simmering, unreadable stare. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. A yes, a no, a scream. It all lodged in his throat.
John leaned forward slowly, planting his elbows on the table. The movement was controlled, predatory. “He doesn’t have to say a goddamn word. You see his face? You’re making his skin crawl. So I’m speaking for him. Get your fucking hand off his leg, or I will break every finger on that hand and then buy you a drink with the pieces.”
The silence that followed was absolute. The jukebox song had ended. Alex had gone perfectly still.
Charles’s hand retracted as if shocked. The weight and heat vanished, leaving a cold, clammy patch on Aaron’s thigh. Charles stood up, his composure cracking into a sneer. “You’re unhinged, Laurens. Always have been. Aaron, the offer stands. When you get tired of babysitting cavemen, you know where to find me.”
He turned and melted back into the crowd.
For three heartbeats, no one spoke. The noise of the bar rushed back in, a wave of meaningless sound.
“Well,” Alex exhaled, picking up his beer. “That was subtly handled.”
John didn’t look at Aaron. He just stared into his whiskey, his jaw working. The tension radiating from him was a live wire. “Guy’s a vulture. He smells blood in the water.”
“What blood?” Aaron whispered, finally finding his voice. It sounded small, wounded.
Now John looked at him. The anger was gone, replaced by something more complicated, more frustrating. A kind of exasperated concern. “You. You just sit there and let him… Christ, Aaron. You’re smarter than that. You’re worth more than that.”
The words were a lance, meant to protect but striking deep into the soft, rotten core of Aaron’s insecurities. He had just sat there. Part of him had liked it. The validation was a drug, even from a dirty needle.
“He was just being friendly,” Aaron said, the lie brittle and transparent.
John barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. “Right. Friendly.” He knocked back the rest of his whiskey and stood, pulling his jacket on. “I’m going. This place is depressing.”
“John—” Alex started.
“It’s fine. I’ve got a portfolio piece to sketch. Burr.” John’s gaze landed on him again, lingering. “Don’t do anything stupid tonight.”
Then he was gone, a blur of motion and simmering energy exiting into the night.
Aaron deflated, his shoulders curling inward. He felt scraped raw.
“He’s right, you know,” Alex said, not unkindly. “About Lee. The guy’s a predator. He knows you’re hung up on John, and he’s using that. Makes you easy to flatter, easy to manipulate.”
“I’m not hung up on him,” Aaron muttered automatically, the oldest lie in the book.
Alex just raised an eyebrow, a silent, eloquent call of bullshit. They drank in silence for a minute. The ghost of Charles’s touch still burned on Aaron’s leg. The ghost of John’s fury, of his ‘you’re worth more’, burned brighter in his mind.
“What portfolio piece?” Aaron asked finally.
“Hmm? Oh. The life drawing one. He’s been stuck on it. Says the models from the art department are ‘too studied,’ whatever that means. Wants something more ‘real.’”
A cold, thrilling dread dripped down Aaron’s spine. He remembered last week, in their messy kitchen. John, leaning against the fridge, sketchbook under his arm. His eyes, thoughtful and assessing, sweeping over Aaron as he made coffee.
‘You have interesting lines, Burr. Tense. Not like the gym rats. Real.’
‘Thanks…?’
‘I’m serious. You should let me draw you sometime.’
Aaron had laughed it off, a nervous, fluttering sound. He’d changed the subject. The idea of being that exposed, that seen, under John’s unwavering focus was terrifying. It was also all he’d thought about for days.
His phone buzzed on the sticky table. A text. From John.
Still at the bar?
Aaron’s heart stuttered. He typed back, fingers clumsy. Yeah. With Alex.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared.
Come by my studio. Apartment 4B. I need a model and you’re already awake.
The world narrowed to the glowing screen. The noise of the bar faded. This was the ledge. This was the moment before the fall.
For the portfolio piece? he sent, buying time, his pulse a frantic drum in his ears.
The reply was immediate.
Yes. Unless you’re busy.
Aaron knew what that meant. It wasn’t a question. It was a challenge, the same one John had issued under the table to Charles Lee. Speak for yourself.
He saw Charles’s smug face. He felt the pathetic, grateful heat of that unwanted hand. He heard John’s voice, tight with a fury that felt, in the tangled mess of Aaron’s heart, almost like care. You’re worth more.
He looked up at Alex, who was watching him with a knowing, resigned expression.
“I have to go,” Aaron said, his voice surprisingly steady.
“Yeah,” Alex sighed, finishing his beer. “I know you do. Just… remember he’s an artist. He sees things. All the way down.”
Aaron didn’t answer. He slid out of the booth, the ghost of one touch fading, replaced by the terrifying, electric promise of another. He left the bar, the cool night air hitting him like a slap, and walked toward John’s apartment, toward the thing he both feared and wanted most: to be truly seen.