Derek Atlas and Chris Rockway stand at the bar, one arm stretched out as they balance crumpled bills in their grip, the other leaning on the wood while the tattoos on their upper arms catch the light. The dark-haired, clean-shaven, muscular man shifts his weight, hand slipping toward his groin before settling back, while the chalkboard behind them lists specials no one’s reading. They strip slowly, first the shirt, then the rest, until only skin and the weight of the money between them remain, the bed’s headboard the only witness as one kisses his own shoulder, then his chest, fingers tracing lines no one else sees.
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