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Authors: Sarah Madison
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restroom after we pay up.”
Alex followed Tate as he threaded his way through the crowd to the back of the building. The restrooms were in a small corridor off the main room. The hallway was bordered on one side with a change machine and on the other with some arcade-type games. One of the games was a boxer’s punching bag suspended in a small cage. Each player got two swings at the bag. A flashing light board registered a combined score for each round. Several frat boys had lined up in front of it, taking punches in turn, and crowing over the numbers that registered.
“I’ll wait here. I can hold your coat,” Alex suggested.
Tate pushed past the raucous bunch of young men and entered the men’s room. The corridor smelled of stale beer and cigarettes. Alex leaned against a pillar and alternated between watching the nearby game of pool and the contest between the frat boys over the boxing game.
A young black man sporting a T-shirt that showed off his impressive physique seemed to be winning the punching game. As Alex watched, he registered a score of 880 points on the board. The next highest score was 650. Each player swaggered forward, intent on toppling the leaders from the board. Alex watched in idle amusement as the high scorer whooped and preened over his numbers, wondering what his reaction to a bar-brawler like Duncan would be and whether things would erupt in a fight.
Something of that must have shown on his face because, when the boy’s gaze caught his eye, he addressed Alex. “Pretty good, huh?” He flexed a bicep, though whether it was meant to challenge or impress, Alex wasn’t sure.
Alex didn’t care much for the kid’s posturing. He smiled briefly and looked away.
“Aw, don’t waste your time, Ricky.” The sneer in the speaker’s voice made Alex turn back again. It was one of the other college kids. He held eye contact with Alex for a moment before continuing. “Pretty boy there’s not in your league. I doubt he even plays on the same team.”
Alex could see that they’d all had a bit too much to drink. The kid who spoke had blond hair in a military-style buzz cut and was flushed with alcohol. Alex considered telling him what he’d look like in fifteen years, when he was no longer playing sports, with thinning hair and a beer belly, but he saw no sense in pouring gasoline on a well-lit fire. Only some perverse little imp made him respond anyway.
“Not at all. I was just wondering if that was the best you could do.” He indicated the boxing bag.
The boys began to hoot and slap one another, even as Blondie thrust his chest out in front of him. “Let me guess,” he said. “You think you can do better?”
“Mind holding this?” Alex handed Tate’s coat to one of the other frat boys. “Now, how does this work? Anybody have some change?”
One of the boys held out a handful of quarters. Alex smiled at the guy nearest to the coin slot, turning on the full force of his charm. He could feel the thrum of the boy’s heartbeat and could tell that the kid was turned on and excited without knowing why. “You mind?”
The frat boy shoved the coins in the machine with alacrity.
Alex approached the bag, eyeing it carefully. “I just hit it?” he asked.
“Yeah,” said Blondie. “Try not to break a nail.” He chortled at his own joke.
Alex had a mental image of driving his nails deep into Blondie’s skin, pinning him down as he shrieked, his screams turning to gurgles. He could almost taste the blood; his mouth watered and his cock throbbed in sympathy. Fortunately, the boys were too drunk to notice.
He pulled his fist back and aimed it at the bag in slow motion, stopping just before he touched it. Shooting Blondie what he knew to be an evil smile, he returned his focus to the bag. With a blur of motion, he struck the leather bag full force. It exploded at the seams, releasing stuffing as it swung crazily from its hook. The numbers on the board scrolled upward over a thousand
Alex followed Tate as he threaded his way through the crowd to the back of the building. The restrooms were in a small corridor off the main room. The hallway was bordered on one side with a change machine and on the other with some arcade-type games. One of the games was a boxer’s punching bag suspended in a small cage. Each player got two swings at the bag. A flashing light board registered a combined score for each round. Several frat boys had lined up in front of it, taking punches in turn, and crowing over the numbers that registered.
“I’ll wait here. I can hold your coat,” Alex suggested.
Tate pushed past the raucous bunch of young men and entered the men’s room. The corridor smelled of stale beer and cigarettes. Alex leaned against a pillar and alternated between watching the nearby game of pool and the contest between the frat boys over the boxing game.
A young black man sporting a T-shirt that showed off his impressive physique seemed to be winning the punching game. As Alex watched, he registered a score of 880 points on the board. The next highest score was 650. Each player swaggered forward, intent on toppling the leaders from the board. Alex watched in idle amusement as the high scorer whooped and preened over his numbers, wondering what his reaction to a bar-brawler like Duncan would be and whether things would erupt in a fight.
Something of that must have shown on his face because, when the boy’s gaze caught his eye, he addressed Alex. “Pretty good, huh?” He flexed a bicep, though whether it was meant to challenge or impress, Alex wasn’t sure.
Alex didn’t care much for the kid’s posturing. He smiled briefly and looked away.
“Aw, don’t waste your time, Ricky.” The sneer in the speaker’s voice made Alex turn back again. It was one of the other college kids. He held eye contact with Alex for a moment before continuing. “Pretty boy there’s not in your league. I doubt he even plays on the same team.”
Alex could see that they’d all had a bit too much to drink. The kid who spoke had blond hair in a military-style buzz cut and was flushed with alcohol. Alex considered telling him what he’d look like in fifteen years, when he was no longer playing sports, with thinning hair and a beer belly, but he saw no sense in pouring gasoline on a well-lit fire. Only some perverse little imp made him respond anyway.
“Not at all. I was just wondering if that was the best you could do.” He indicated the boxing bag.
The boys began to hoot and slap one another, even as Blondie thrust his chest out in front of him. “Let me guess,” he said. “You think you can do better?”
“Mind holding this?” Alex handed Tate’s coat to one of the other frat boys. “Now, how does this work? Anybody have some change?”
One of the boys held out a handful of quarters. Alex smiled at the guy nearest to the coin slot, turning on the full force of his charm. He could feel the thrum of the boy’s heartbeat and could tell that the kid was turned on and excited without knowing why. “You mind?”
The frat boy shoved the coins in the machine with alacrity.
Alex approached the bag, eyeing it carefully. “I just hit it?” he asked.
“Yeah,” said Blondie. “Try not to break a nail.” He chortled at his own joke.
Alex had a mental image of driving his nails deep into Blondie’s skin, pinning him down as he shrieked, his screams turning to gurgles. He could almost taste the blood; his mouth watered and his cock throbbed in sympathy. Fortunately, the boys were too drunk to notice.
He pulled his fist back and aimed it at the bag in slow motion, stopping just before he touched it. Shooting Blondie what he knew to be an evil smile, he returned his focus to the bag. With a blur of motion, he struck the leather bag full force. It exploded at the seams, releasing stuffing as it swung crazily from its hook. The numbers on the board scrolled upward over a thousand
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