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Joey
Joeywipeddownthegrimy bar with practiced efficiency, thankful for the way his hands now moved on autopilot. The raucous noise of the club provided a temporary escape from the chaos swirling within his mind.
He tried to ignore the ache of his black eye. Going by the winces and sympathetic jokes from the drunks at the bar, at least it was going to earn him some sympathy tips.
But the ache wasn't the only thing he was trying not to think about…
The memory of Marco's tender touch lingered, playing like a loop in his thoughts. A shiver ran down his spine as he recalled the intensity of that moment, the desire that flickered between them.
It was a dangerous allure, one he couldn't afford to entertain. Whatever it was, he had to ignore it.
But as he handed over beers and counted change, he couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to fully submit to that touch.
To give in. To let whatever was going to happen, happen.
To surrender to the captivating force that was Marco.
Lost in his thoughts, he wasn't ready for a familiar voice to cut through the air. "Joey, how are you doing?"
Joey's daydreams shattered like glass.
His heart beat erratically as he turned towards the sound, his eyes widening in disbelief. Standing before him, wearing a worn-out expression and the weight of his own demons, was his father.
"Nice shiner," Frank joked, but his face was tense. He stared at his son with a mixture of defiance and… was that guilt?
Joey's fingers tensed on the bar. Please let it be guilt…
For once in his life, please let him be sorry…
Frank looked around the bar, his gaze lingering on Gina, currently dancing on stage. "It doesn't look like you're doing too bad. Hell, I'd work in a place like this—and they wouldn't even have to pay me!"
Something inside Joey snapped.
"Look, Dad, you owe me an explanation," he demanded, his voice shaking. "The Toscanos dragged me in here to pay off your gambling debts. I've been working my ass off! Where have you been?!"
Frank shifted uncomfortably, looking like a cornered animal in the dimly lit room. Sweat was already beading on his brow. "Joey... it's not that simple," he muttered, unable to meet his son's gaze.
"Isn't it?" Joey shot back. He flung himself around the bar, stepping closer to his father. The scent of sweat and cologne filled the small space, mingling with the faint trace of cigar smoke that clung to his father's clothes.
Where have you been, he'd asked—but Joey already knew the answer.
"Tell me the truth, Dad. Have you stopped gambling or not?"
There was a long, painful silence as Joey's father hesitated. It didn't matter. Joey could read him like a book.
It was like the words were falling out of Joey, coming from somewhere deep inside of him that he had no control over. "That's bad news for you," he heard himself say. He felt distant, like he was somewhere else. "You don't have any other kids to sell to the Mafia, after all."
"Joey!" Frank snapped, his voice raw with emotion. "Alright. The truth is... I haven't stopped. I'm in deep, Joey. I can't get out." His shoulders slumped, defeated. "But I swear, I never wanted you to get involved. I didn't want this to happen. I didn't want any of this for you."
"Then why did you do it?" Joey asked, his voice cracking.
"I... I don't know what to say. I didn't mean for any of this to happen."
"You already said that!" Joey threw up his arms. "God, if you're going to be useless, at least be creative!"
Frank looked around nervously, as if searching for an escape route from the consequences of his actions. "Look," he began, haltingly. "I'll... I'll figure something out. I promise. Just... just give me some time, okay?"
Joey had heard that one before—again, and again, and again. "Yeah," he said. "Sure."
