There's this new cafe down the street that everyone seems to be raving about. Wade doesn't see what the point is. Coffee is coffee. At least for him. At least for people like him. Broke and lucky enough to get their hands on anything at all.
No, he's not bitter. Salty maybe. But not bitter.
Except he totally is. But he's learned to stop hating on all the pompous douche bags around him who spend more money on a single skimpy cup of coffee than he can afford to be fed for an entire day.
He hopes the fuckers choke on it.
Okay, fine, maybe he hasn't made any progress. But it's been three whole weeks since his last visit with his probation officer and Wade is actually pleased with all this sudden self-restrain he's been exhibiting.
He's curious though. About the shop. Who wouldn't be? The whole town was going on about it like it was some magical wonder.
And that's how Wade finds himself walking down the winding alley, avoiding the suffocating crowds of people as he looks for the nearest clearing, the closest passageway to the shop. It's damp and the smell of rot burns his nose. The stench stings his eyes, and they water. He steps on the tail of a fat tabby cat right before he makes the corner.
The feline screeches and hisses, and Wade puts up a valiant battle, right up to the point where he runs off like a headless chicken. Those claws are sharp, okay? And Wade's skin is fucked up enough as it is in his opinion.
He turns back once he knows he's a safe distance away, glaring at his assailant. Oh. Apparently she wasn't fat. Just pregnant. And damn was she ever territorial and protective of her unborn.
She hisses at him again and he jumps, sticking his tongue out before scurrying around the corner. He could use someone like that in his life. Feisty with no shits to give about what happens to whomever gets in their way. Or at least someone who won't eat all his food.
Wade snorts derisively. Not like he has to worry about that anyway.
He could totally become a cat dude. They were supposed to be keepers of the underworld or something, right? Yeah. Maybe he could even train one to sick zombies on the rich bastards who stole his life away.
The cafe comes into view, and Wade let's out a tight breath, thankful for the distraction. He really does not need his thoughts to venture to those dark moments of his past.
And what a distraction this is! He can't help but double over in hysterics at just the name of the place.
Prostate Milk.
What the actual fuck!
Come on, really. Well, Wade knows he's not that young anymore, hitting his mid-thirties in a couple of months, but come on! Kids these days have the most fucked up notions for franchise names. His ass could come up with something better, and all it does it fart.
He loves it though. This is the cafe for him. What he doesn't get is why all the snooty patootie rick folk are constantly fogging the streets with talk of it.
The door has a melodic chime as he swings it open. Within seconds he's assaulted with a rich, strong odour. Almost musky. It wafts through the room, drawing him in. Not long after comes a sweet aroma, brimming his senses with pleasure, a brutal contrast to the powerful scent that enveloped him just moments before.
He's never seen anything like it before, and Wade is questioning how this even is a coffee shop at all. There are no tables. Not even a simple counter from which to order the fucking coffee! Just segmented areas of elaborate flooring segregated by thick, red-velvet curtains sweeping the floor.
Slight movement behind the curtains catches his eye. Wade walks closer to it. He can hear something. He closes his eyes, ear pressed to the curtain. Waiting.
Every few minutes there are quiet moans. Short gasps, rough panting. A name being screamed, the sound muffled. Then a low groan and a quiet thump.
Wade gulps. This wasn't a coffee shop at all.
"May I help you?"
Wade jumps at the quiet voice that has snuck up from behind him. Fuck he's hot.
He doesn"t know whether to be dancing with joy or running for his life. It's been forever since he's had sex, but it's been forever since he's had sex! He'd probably come just at those sounds from the curtain if he could hear them again.
The young man clears his throat, standing straight, almost intimidating, and looks pointedly at Wade's crotch before at his eyes and back again.
"May I help you?" he repeats.
Oh fuck. He was hard. And now that attention had been brought to it, Wade"s fidgeting on his feet, uncomfortable. "Uh … ."
"You hardly look like someone who could afford these services," he says with a disinterested sigh. There is a curt wave of his hand, and the young man steps past Wade with an air of superiority.
Wade growls. "Yeah, well who said I want any fucking service from you, kid!"
The man stands in place, back towards Wade. He scoffs, snapping the fingers of a crisp, white-gloved hand.
A boy, barely in his twenties, emerges from behind the curtain. He's got nothing but a black lace thong wrapped around his crotch. His thighs are red with finger markings, and slick with something sticky. Wade suppresses a groan at the thought of what that sticky mess might be. He doesn't stop the tongue that juts out his mouth licking at his chapped lips, though.
"This is Peter," says the man, back still towards him. Wade grunts. The least the jerk could do was look at him when he was talking.
"He's one of my best," he says smugly.
"At what?" Wade asks hesitantly. He feels like there's something he is missing with the whole theme here. And he knows exactly what is going on, but there's still a part of him that just needs to hear this first hand. After all, Wade's no strangers to hallucinations and misinterpretations.
"At putting milk in your coffee, of course." The voice is even, but his tone leaks with lewd implication.
Wade tries to laugh, but it comes out dark and menacing. Somehow he was hoping that he actually would be hallucinating. He doesn't even want to look at the kid. Probably some under aged sex worker that got trapped in the sticky web of lies and promises of another one of them petty rich folk.
But then he hears the kid speak.
Wade doesn't even register what he says. Just his voice.
Beckoning. Like a fucking siren. And he knows he's already in too deep without even having dipped a toe in the water.
Then Wade makes a fatal mistake. He looks at the kid. What was his name?
Ah yes. Peter. Such a polite name. Not really suited for this business.
Peter stares back at him, and if Wade thought he was in trouble before, then he must be the floating corpse of a drowning man after seeing this boy's eyes, their gazes locking for only a mere second. But it feels like an eternity. Because he is far in over his head. So much that it hurts, squeezing at his chest like a pair of rusty pliers.
"That will be $1000 for the hour."
Wade needs to find the money somehow. He has to.