Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
Being fucked on a bike used to be a fantasy of his, so maybe he and Miguel could make it real?
Nero’s thoughts blanked when Miguel’s dick swelled a little, as if his imagination had somehow rubbed off on him.
But before he could ask about it, Miguel let go and got off so abruptly he ended up stumbling. Smirking, Nero wanted to comment on Miguel’s clumsiness, but instead of picking himself up, Miguel fell forward, straight into the trash bags piled around the containers. Soft knees after the ride?
Miguel took several deep breaths, not even trying to get up this time, and it was only then that Nero remembered the poor bastard’s back and shoulder were a pin cushion for glass.
The police siren roared again, and Nero got off the bike, shoving it behind the container. “Come on, I’ll take care of that, but let’s get inside,” he said, already taking in the 70s-style tenement buildings towering on both sides of the cobbled alleyway.
“I’m fine,” Miguel rasped and reached to a saddlebag attached to the motorbike to retrieve the bottle of vodka he’d taken from the bar.
Nero cackled and moved his arm to pat Miguel’s back for emphasis. He stopped himself at the last moment, once more remembering his injuries. “Sure you are. A fucking example of good health,” he said, searching for a place where he could have a better look at the injuries.
All he got from Miguel was an incoherent grumble, but Nero didn’t give a shit as long as he wasn’t being arrested and Miguel’s arm remained around his shoulders. They walked on at the pace of two grandpas with heatstroke for another two blocks until Nero spotted an abandoned house at the intersection of the pedestrian alleyway and a narrow, quiet street.
The colonial-style building would have been charming if someone chose to renovate it, but right now its formerly pristine facade was covered in graffiti and the iron balcony above the main entrance rusted through. A door of green metal, and shutters of the same material had been attached to every entry point in the first floor within sight, but when Nero grabbed the padlock at the entrance, it opened, as if someone had left it like that on purpose.
Hallelujah.
This wasn’t how he’d imagined this night to go, but hey, unexpected events were the spice of life, and he’d rather enjoy them instead of living a boring life into his eighties. Were it not for Juan’s madness, he’d have ended the outing by getting his cock serviced by some darkroom rando. Instead, he’d shared pulse-raising moments with Miguel and sensed the proof of his arousal. The two of them needed to go on motorcycle rides way more often.
He switched on the flashlight in his phone and led Miguel into a dusty space with a massive bar counter at the back. A couple of tables and chairs stood grouped in a corner, but despite rude pictures spray-painted on the walls and a crack in the middle of the tiled floor, the forgotten business—likely a bar—was in a decent shape. Empty bottles and a pile of chip bags suggested this place sometimes served as a hangout for youngsters, but since Nero saw no evidence of anyone’s presence, he presumed they’d be alone.
And if they weren’t, he’d just deal with it.
“How bad is it?” he asked, twisting his features when the ray of light made the glass in Miguel’s skin glow.
Miguel chewed on the question as if he were about to bite into a lemon, and eagerly sat back-to-front in a chair that wasn’t falling apart. “Just disinfect it,” he said, passing Nero the bottle of vodka. Before Nero could have protested, he pulled off his tank top with a hiss of pain, ripping some of the glass out in the process. A massive demon skull stared back at Nero from the elaborate tattoo on Miguel’s back. Its empty eyes were the focus of the design, but the image contained a wealth of other elements, like machine guns with barrels crossed over the small of Miguel’s back, horns reaching all the way to the nape, and a snake climbing out of the skull’s eye, all on the canvas of beautiful muscle.
Miguel panted, dropping his top to the floor, but Nero was still staring back at the face of death watching him back from Miguel’s flesh. Were it not covered in blood, he would have licked the toothy mouth of ink. This was why he loved tattoos and body modifications so much. Done well, they enhanced one’s features, and unlike natural flesh, the art showed you who the person truly was. Even people who got tattoos to hide their real personality used them to express who they wanted to be.
And Miguel? Whether he was a demon or craved to be one, his ink promised obliteration to anyone who stood in his way. Nero would pay him for the privilege of putting his beginner skills with the tattoo gun to work on that warm, dusky skin.