↯↯ high voltage ↯↯

Jason refused to go out the next day. He couldn't find any reason to.

For hours, he just sat by the window, watching the bustling city pass by. His cell was beside him, and every so often, he'd allow himself to check it, waiting anxiously for a call that never came. 

It wasn't surprising. Salim was busy. Equally, he could've manned up and made the damn call himself. Yet here he was, shamelessly wallowing in self-pity, but too cowardly to do anything about it. Gridlock on a highway. 

And then the sun went down. The darkness was foreboding, promising another sleepless night. The one before had been hell, stretching endlessly as he glared holes through the plasterboard ceiling. It was enough to shake him into action. He lurched from his armchair like a zombie, candy wrappers falling from his lap and fluttering in all directions. 

He needed a drink—something to make his mind shut up for a bit. There'd been a club he had spotted in one of his travel brochures, advertising weekday openings. It seemed like a decent enough bet. After brushing his teeth, he mindlessly threw something on from his dwindling clothes pile. Then he headed out, taking enough cash to effectively lose himself, but not so much that he'd screw himself over for the rest of the trip.

His destination was a lot less polished than marketed. A dull, concrete box, with tacky promo posters plastered all over in an attempt to make it look more appealing. He couldn't care less; not there to be wowed by the city's vibrant nightlife.

Upon entering the building, he immediately parked himself at the bar. Despite the wince-worthy pricing, he was able to spring for a decent whiskey. Knocking it back like water, he was waving for a second before the bartender turned away. He shot Jason a look—one that said he knew exactly how his shift was about to play out. 

Soon, the buzz settled in, helped along by the hazy, smoke-filled air. Turbulent thoughts were washed away beneath thumping music and ambient chatter. A conversation beside him cut through the noise, just enough that he caught snippets:

"I don't know what to do, Soph. I mean, three years…"

"Babes, it's his loss. You're gorgeous. All you've got to do is put yourself out there; you'll have blokes throwing themselves at you in no time." 

Jason snorted, cracking the closest thing to a smile he had all day. He reckoned the speech was supposed to be inspiring, but the lady was so gone—her speech so slurred—that it sounded more like a junkie preaching scripture in a Walmart parking lot.

"Come on, girl, we're getting you a tequila. Hey mate, can we—" 

'Soph' slumped forward as she tried to flag down the bartender. As a result, she lost balance and tipped sideways off her stool. 

Just at the point that Jason was standing, ready to help her up, a bouncer seemed to materialise out of nowhere. He hoisted the woman off the ground, flinging her over his shoulder, and gently but firmly informed her that it was time to leave. Her friend watched on, mouth gaped like a fish, as Soph disappeared into the crowd, wailing protests the whole way through. 

Then, she happened to catch Jason's eye. 

She was pretty, although a bit more glamorous than his usual 'type.' As much as he could claim to have one. So petite that a strong gust of wind might have blown her away, with long, glossy hair that caught against the strobes above. 

She flashed him a smile and an accepting shrug, as though this was far from the first time she'd found herself in this situation. This was before darting for the exit, as fast as sky-high heels would allow. 

Jason didn't think much more about it, returning to his whiskey. That was until a few minutes later, when the same woman reappeared at the bar. She looked a little flustered, her cheeks pink and breathing laboured, but otherwise composed. Initially, she had asked for water before shaking her head and changing the order to something stronger.

"...Your friend doing okay?" he asked, lowering his tumbler. 

The woman perked up, surprised that he'd chosen to strike up a conversation, but not upset by it. "Oh—yeah. She's like that basically every time we go out. First time she's had to be carried, though. Getting her into the taxi was fun."

"Yeah, I bet. Hit the floor pretty hard. Hope her head ain't too sore tomorrow." 

"I think it would've been anyway," she quipped, smirking as she did so. Her drink was handed over, and she reached for her bag. Before she could open it, Jason slid a bill across the counter. 

"Don't worry, I'll pay." 

Her smile widened, though it seemed bittersweet, failing to reach her eyes. She then gestured to the stool next to him. "Do you mind if I sit with you?" 

He couldn't think of a reason to say no. Between her friend's antics and an apparent break-up, she seemed to be having one hell of a time. They could both do with a chance to unwind. Enjoy some uncomplicated company. 

Her name was Melissa. They chatted for a while, or as best they could over the booming speakers. It was mostly small talk: lamenting the DJ and complaining about how expensive everything was. Her ex only came up once, to clarify they had broken up earlier that day, and that she'd done the dumping. 

"I was out for groceries; got halfway there before I realised I left my purse behind. When I got into the flat, he was in bed with our next-door neighbour." 

Jason hissed sharply, shaking his head. "Fuck, that's awful…You seem a decent person, and he sounds like a total piece of shit. I'm sorry that happened." 

"It's okay." She grinned bravely. He had to admire it; he wasn't sure he would be able to do the same in her position. "God knows how long it had been going on for. Soph was right, I'm glad to be shot of him." 

"Well, here's to dodgin' bullets." He held up his glass, encouraging her to do the same, before they met with a light clink. She downed what was left of her vodka, and after she did, he noticed her staring. 

It wasn't super obvious. Just a touch too coy, a touch too lingering, to be totally friendly. She ordered another round before he had a chance to chime in, insisting it was on her this time. 

"I'm sorry if this seems odd…" She propped an elbow onto the counter, resting her face in her palm. "But I have to say, I love your accent. Where in America are you from?" 

"Tennessee." Without thinking, Jason tipped his hat, intentionally giving himself more of a drawl. "Born and raised, ma'am." 

He felt a bit stupid afterwards, playing into a cheesy, dated parody that he usually despised. Melissa, on the other hand, was delighted. Her dark lashes fluttered, and he half-expected her to follow up with some cheesy pick-up line about seeing tens. 

"Ma'am." The word rolled clumsily off her tongue, in an attempt to mimic his gravelly delivery. "I like that, it's cute." 

Jason chuckled, not sure how he felt about this interpretation. "Guess I better take that as a compliment…" 

Their orders arrived, and he wasted no time in taking a swig. With each gulp, the burn of the liquor tapered off more, his senses starting to dull. At the same time, however, he was far more aware of the strong smell of smoke. 

He became entranced by his newfound preoccupation, as his fingers drummed on the counter. Empty. For the first time in his life, Jason really wanted a cigarette.

Distracted, he didn't immediately notice the hand which had drifted to his forearm. That was until a manicured nail began tracing the lines of a feathery wing. 

"Nice…uh…" Melissa stalled, as though suddenly realising she had forgotten the name of the bird. She pivoted, face red with inebriation and embarrassment. "Were you in the army?" 

"Marines," he clipped. The bluntness hadn't been warranted; it was a common mistake. He just didn't want to talk about the tattoos, still sore over the way they'd been received the day prior. 

"First Lieutenant. My last deployment was to Iraq. Just a civilian now."

"You were in Iraq?" Her mouth formed an exaggerated 'O' before her hand clamped across it.  "It must've been terrible, the things I've seen on the news… I'm really glad you made it out."

You've got no idea. 

"I was glad to be home; that's for sure." The lie was pushed through a tense smile. "London's nice, though. Been enjoyin' the change of scenery." 

Melissa sat up, eyes sparking with newfound focus, as her glossy lips pulled inwards. "...Well, if you like, I can show you around a bit. The Thames is beautiful at night. All lit up." 

Jason failed to muster a great deal of enthusiasm. "Ah. Yeah. We could do that." 

He didn't want to be rude, but equally, he had done plenty of sightseeing during his trip. More or less exhausted his energy for it. Melissa, as it happened, didn't seem married to the idea either. She leaned in closer across the bar, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. 

"Or maybe we can grab a bottle of wine and head to your hotel. It'd be a lot cheaper than staying here." 

Well. Damn. 

Apparently, Soph's drunken pep talk had been a lot more inspiring than he'd given credit for. 'Unwinding' was no longer a shared objective. Things had taken a turn. Or at the very least, they were about to, depending on how Jason played it. 

He couldn't blame the woman for going for it, given the unfortunate context which had brought her to the bar. Far from a great idea, but he had no right—or desire—to jump on a soapbox and start preaching. 

He had made much worse calls, engaged in messier shit, strung out on more than booze. Nonetheless, he stalled. Bought himself time to think about it, along with another drink which he framed as "for the road." 

This became two drinks. Then three. He prayed she wouldn't catch on. Although given how airy she had become, idly swaying on her stool, it seemed unlikely. 

The DJ finished his set, and the guy who followed was received much better. She hummed along to every remix, eyes pinched closed in absent contentment. 

There was a brief hiccup, the vocals for a love song, strung into the steady flow of drum rolls. Her face tightened, and movements halted. For a moment, Jason worried he might be witnessing the calm before the storm. An impending breakdown he'd have no idea how to deal with.

The beat of the drums picked up, and the lyrics merged into something less heavy. Eyes fluttering open, her morose frown broke away into a grin.

"Come on." The warmth of her hand vaguely registered. Dragging across his own, soft and encouraging, as he was pulled from his seat. "Let's dance."

As they walked, she teetered side to side, using him for support. Their shoulders brushed, and glossy hair tickled the underside of his nose. It smelt nice, sweet and floral, then faded away into nothing. 

He blinked against the onslaught of flashing lights. Worked his way obediently through the horde of writhing bodies. By the time she'd draped her arms around his neck and pressed her weight into his chest, a familiar knowing had sunk in. It churned in his gut, the scenario all-too familiar.

Jenny. 

She had been pretty, too. Funny. Sweet. The kind of person who wouldn't hesitate to slip a five to the guy asleep on the street corner. Would delay a walk in the park because she was too busy petting the dogs.

Someone who'd deserved to feel special. Because she really, truly was.

And the best he could do was go through the motions. Step in time as they'd strolled through campus. Mirror the wandering hands, the kisses, which followed back in the dorms. Never sure of what to do, what to feel, always left to follow her lead. 

Until the night when it all stopped, as he was told she couldn't do it anymore. 

"It's not your fault, Jason. You can't help it…"

The word. 

The one that felt like ice water down his neck. Chilling him to his core, locked in a deep, dread-filled paralysis.

"Jen, it's—no—shit, it's not like that—" 

Melissa wasn't Jenny. Just a stranger who was hurting. And how could she not be? Betrayed in the worst way possible, carved open and gutted by someone she trusted. 

It would be wrong, deeply fucked up, to take advantage of this vulnerability. That alone was a good enough reason why he couldn't take her back to the hotel.  

But it wasn't the only reason. Jason knew that, had done since he was fifteen. 

It didn't matter what her name was. What she looked like, or how she acted. No amount of calling it casual, pretending there wasn't a 'spark,' was going to change anything. Because with every stumble, every look of sultry anticipation, his mind drifted elsewhere:

A warm laugh. Curly hair. Sandalwood cologne and nicotine gum. The phone which sat abandoned on his desk. 

Thankfully, Jason never had to come up with an excuse. 

As they stepped outside, struck with crisp air and bracing winds, Melissa appeared to come to her senses. Realising that jumping into bed with an American tourist would be little consolation for the years of her life she'd watched collapse. 

That, or getting her stiletto jammed in a storm grate, narrowly avoiding face-planting the concrete, had been humbling enough to kill the mood.

In any case, she waved down a cab. Offered a thank you and brief apology, but made no suggestion they exchange numbers. Then, she was gone, slipping away into the darkness.

He stumbled his way to the nearest train station, only to discover the final service had long since departed. What would've been his own cab fare had been sunk into the last round of drinks, leaving him stranded. 

That was until a lone janitor spotted him. Clocked the glazed, despairing look and took pity. He talked him through the route back to the hotel. Jason, with around three remaining brain cells, tried to retain as much as possible.

Honestly, he had no idea how he'd pulled it off. But sure enough, after an hour or so of fumbling through dimly lit streets, he was collapsing face-first onto his bed.

The sudden momentum rattled his skull and the room spun sickeningly. He had no delusions of getting himself undressed. At the very least, he managed to wriggle free of his shoes and jeans. 

His eyes fluttered closed, exhausted grunts mingling with sighs of relief. Sleep fast approached, and he welcomed it graciously, sinking further into the sheets—

That was, until he heard something. Movement in the night, followed by the creak of mattress springs.

Sluggish cognition lurched to life. His head, which had been all-but stitched to his pillow, ripped upwards in confusion. He couldn't see anything, blinking through the darkness, but could tell the weight had settled on the opposing side of the bed. 

Someone was behind him. Sitting. Waiting. Getting ready to slide closer. 

Then, there was skin, pressed firmly to the length of his back. Fingers followed suit, tracing patterns across the rumpled shirt. 

Confusion turned to panic, with Jason questioning his hazy recollections of the evening. Had Melissa actually gone home in that cab? Or had he immeasurably fucked up, going through with the ill-advised hookup?

The figure pressed closer, their breath beating in hot puffs against his neck. Large, firm hands found his waist, confirming with certainty that it was not the woman he'd met at the bar. They slid across his sides before powerful arms locked around him.

 Adrenaline surged through his veins. His mind screamed for him to react. To turn around, to fight the intruder off, to do something. This was until they spoke to him. A warm, rich voice whispered placatingly against his ear:

"Shhh, it's okay."

Everything stopped. A dense wall of cotton plugged his senses, stifling any logic. 

"...Sal—"

He didn't get to finish. 

One of the hands had reached over, cupping his mouth. The digits then fanned out, charting the line of his cheek and jaw, as the thumb stayed anchored in place, applying pressure to his lower lip. 

Jason bit the inside of his cheek, repressing a moan which threatened to escape. It was mortifying how quickly the touch managed to affect him. 

He wouldn't be able to downplay his interest for long. The other man refused to let up, making the notion of surrender impossibly tempting. 

Tracing the shell of his ear with his tongue, Salim concluded the motion with a teasing nip. Jason arched back, the sting sending ripples of excitement through his body, as needy twitches were met with a roll of hips. 

Resistance abandoned him. Fluttered into the air with a low, throaty groan. Salim wasted no time, pushing into the part of his now-opened lips.

His thumb trailed wet, pliant skin before settling on the centre of his tongue. With the eager reaction this inspired, Salim chuckled and muttered something under his breath. 

Jason failed to understand any of it, but God, it sounded incredible. 

Auditory velvet. Silky and decadent. It wrapped around him, pressing tightly, as his body ached for more. His mouth pleaded to respond to the intrusion. To flit his tongue upwards, hollow his cheeks, seeing what other sounds Salim might be capable of producing—

Then, without warning, it was gone. The pressure. The heat. Everything. Breaking apart like static and fading into black.

Jason woke up with a start. His heart pounded, threatening to punch a hole through his chest, as sweat dripped from his clammy skin. 

Once disorientation had waned and he remembered where he was, the realisation of what had happened began to register. Slowly, reluctantly, he reached over and flicked on the bedside lamp. 

He'd already felt it. The blood pooled between his legs, the insistent pulse beneath dark cotton. But actually seeing the arousal tented between his legs made it all the more real.  Cursing in frustration, his face sank into his hands. 

He was fucked.