Heart Knot Mine

by Lily Velden

  I sighed. All I could do was hope and pray that with time he’d come around. I couldn’t—wouldn’t—believe I was so wrong about him. I refused to accept that he was the type of person who could switch off his love like a tap.

  Pushing all thought of Mitch from my mind, I stared at the long list of Robert’s e-mails, longing to open one just to have some kind of contact with him. If anyone knew what I was going through in regard to my family, it was Robert. But, of course, he had no idea Mitch had totally rejected me. How could he? His e-mails were probably in as much denial as the man himself and filled with empty conversation. Part of me yearned to open one, even if that was all the message contained. Something… anything, was surely better than nothing.

  But I couldn’t.

  It would just prolong the agony.

  And so I dealt with them the same way I had all his previous e-mails: I stored them in the subfolder I’d set up for him. I couldn’t bring myself to read them, but I couldn’t bear to delete them either.

  I looked at his subfolder. It showed thirty-three unread e-mails. Another wave of longing coursed through me. I wanted Robert so badly the pain was physical. I wanted him to comfort me and tell me Mitch would come around. That Miranda would sway Mitch, and I wouldn’t lose Ricky and Jared. I wanted him to tell me I wasn’t alone. I wanted him to tell me he loved me.

  My wants were just so much wasted time and space, like dead leaves to be raked or swept aside, and so I washed my foolish desires away with a sip of red wine and closed my e-mail account.

  Best way to get over someone is to fuck someone else. More words of wisdom from Seth. The mere thought of dating made me nauseous, but perhaps I could ease myself into the scene by finding a gay sauna. Perhaps another bathhouse stranger was the answer. Maybe getting my cock sucked would ease my heartache. It certainly couldn’t make it any worse.

  Google provided me with a few options. I picked the one closest to home.

  I OPENED my eyes and looked down through the steam at the brown-haired man bobbing against my groin. I moaned, but it wasn’t in pleasure. It was in pain. His hair was the wrong shade of brown. I closed my eyes to block the sight before it ruined my fantasy.

  It was pointless, of course.

  Everything about the experience was different. His mouth didn’t feel the same—it wasn’t as soft. The way he used his tongue was unfamiliar. His hands didn’t hold and work me the way Robert’s did. The sounds he made were lustful and showed he enjoyed the act, but they weren’t Robert’s sounds. Even the hair under my hands wasn’t as silky.

  Despite being a similar height and build, he wasn’t Robert.

  None of them had been Robert. Not one had touched something deep inside me like Robert had. No connection. No spark. Just a hard-on.

  My heart and mind railed in protest over that fact, but my cock didn’t care. My dick didn’t care at all. It seemed my bathhouse stranger was right, after all. My cock had friction. It had a warm, wet hole to lose itself in, and that was all that mattered to it. It didn’t care if my heart was broken. It didn’t care that I had no appetite. That I slept badly, my dreams haunted by brown eyes, ivory skin, and rounded vowels. All it cared about was shooting a load.

  I didn’t know whether to be grateful to my dick or abhor it for its lack of concern, for the way it could erupt in physical pleasure in one man’s mouth when another man held my heart.

  Perhaps both.

  Maybe my cock and my bathhouse guy were right. Maybe love was just bullshit and fairy tales. A fallacy. Worse, maybe it was a sickness. A fever. Maybe I should try fucking Robert Callinan out of my system, because the sucking sure as hell wasn’t doing the job.

  I might as well try—nothing else had worked thus far.

  THE ASS on offer before me wasn’t smooth. It had a light, almost invisible, blond downy coating. It was a nice ass nonetheless—lean and muscled, with a dusky brown hole that I’d loosened in preparation for my cock. I watched as it pulsed in desire, waiting for and wanting to be filled.

  With Robert, the moment of penetration had been, for me, one of my favorite things. In that all-too-brief moment of initial intrusion, it was as if a sigh had run the entire length of my body, an awareness of surrendering myself to use and be used in pleasure by the one I loved.

  Staring at the anonymous ass before me, I wondered if its owner could possibly feel anything even remotely similar when it was a stranger who was about to penetrate him.

  My thoughts had no adverse effect on my dick. It was hard. I looked down at it as if seeing it for the first time. It was pink and engorged, throbbing with the need to ejaculate. I couldn’t quite believe it was mine, that it could be hard and wanting when my heart just wasn’t into it. It still came as a shock to me every time it lengthened and thickened because of some guys’ ministrations. How could it be so disconnected from the rest of me?

  My stranger’s moan pulled me from my thoughts, and I gripped the base of my shaft and stepped forward, positioning the tip against his bud.

  I hesitated.

  I hesitated too long.

  I pulled back, reaching with my hand to caress one cheek. “Sorry. Me. Not you.”

  My eyes burned with unshed tears as I walked away. When would the pain ease? When would my heart be my own again?

  I BLINKED, unsure of how I’d ended up at an open mic night at 3160 Piano & Cabaret. I was fairly certain I was on a date of sorts, but how that had happened was a bit of a mystery. Taking a sip of my wine, I surreptitiously studied my “date.”

  Two weeks previously he’d visited my office in between lectures and introduced himself as Jon Abbiati, the new guy from Finance. After a brief handshake, he’d sat himself opposite me and politely asked why, when it was late September and a month since my return, I had yet to submit receipts for the various entry fees I’d paid and tours I’d participated in as part of my research for student exchanges between SAIC and Central Saint Martins. Apparently I was eligible to be reimbursed for them.

  A brief chat later, I’d agreed to have the paperwork ready for him the next week.

  And I had.

  And he’d come back to collect.

  Again he’d sat in my office, this time with coffees in hand, and we’d seated ourselves on my couch. He’d made small talk, and I’d asked all the appropriate questions, nodding when I was supposed to nod, and smiling when I was supposed to smile.

  The whole time, I kept thinking if I did “normal” things long enough, perhaps, one day, they’d become genuine again, and I wouldn’t have to work at them.

  Two days later, he stopped by again. As per his last visit, he came bearing coffees. We sat, we talked, and then I found myself agreeing to join him for drinks.

  And so I found myself in 3160, beer in hand.

  He was gay. At least, I was fairly sure he was gay. The venue he’d chosen was certainly predominantly a gay bar. The odd het couple could be seen, but they were few and far between.

  I studied him as he scanned the room. The first word that sprang to mind was manly. Jon Abbiati was manly. He was broad of shoulder, and now with his jacket and tie removed and his collar and first few buttons undone, I could see how his biceps lightly stretched the fabric of his sleeves as he raised his glass. A tiny triangle of dark wispy hair could be seen at the opening of his shirt. His neck was thick, muscled. So was his chest. He either had been or still was an athlete. Certainly not your stereotypical office geek.

  His face matched his physique. He wasn’t good-looking in the classical sense of the word. More striking. His face was strong and uncompromising, almost to the point of looking harsh. I could see him as some mafioso boss—something I was to discover couldn’t be further from the truth. His broad forehead, Roman nose, chiseled cheekbones, and a faint cleft in his chin all shouted his masculinity. He definitely had a presence.

  He turned to face me and smiled. It softened his features. He looked more approachable, less forbidding.

  He spoke of sailing and hockey.<
br />
  I spoke of tae kwon do and art.

  He revealed he’d grown up in Chicago, moved away for a few years, but was now back for the long-term.

  I revealed having moved here from Pittsburgh as a teen.

  Our conversation flowed. There was no awkwardness, no uncomfortable pauses, and yet despite imparting a wealth of facts to him, I marveled at how little I was truly revealing about myself. What were facts and figures? Just statistics. Little more than empty bits of knowledge. It was no more descriptive of me, the man, than knowing my height and weight. I revealed nothing of my heart. Nothing of my thoughts. Nor did I probe to learn his.

  His gaze traveled over my face, pausing on my mouth, on my neck. He watched my hands as I gesticulated, and when I spoke, he held my gaze. His interest was subtle but clear.

  I liked him, but I wanted to feel more.

  I wanted to be moved by him.

  I wanted to feel overwhelmingly attracted. A pull. Something.

  I wanted to reciprocate his interest.

  Fuck, how I wanted.

  In that moment, I loathed Robert. The love I felt should have been a sweet cascade of emotion through my veins. Instead it was a corrosive poison.

  And I loathed myself.

  I hated that I had a man seated before me, who, with each passing moment, was making it clearer and clearer he found me attractive, and yet I felt next to nothing. I silently railed at myself for continuing to yearn for a man who didn’t want me.

  The whole scene was surreal. I was there. But I wasn’t. As I marveled at my detachment, the music of the young guy at the piano seeped into my awareness. He was doing an excellent cover of Tom Odell’s “Another Love.” Too good a rendition. It took me back to a pub in England. It took me back to a night out with Robert. To the night I got introduced to the young, talented Brit’s music. That night I’d believed I was loved. That night I’d enjoyed the song, its lyrics flowing over me, never penetrating. Now when he sang the words “used up on another love,” they were like fingers probing an open wound. They stabbed me. Gutted me. Left me raw and bleeding.

  My detachment of moments before was in tatters.

  I had to turn my face away.

  “Bad breakup?”

  His quietly asked question jolted me out of my thoughts. Break up? Was that what Robert and I’d done? Had we been in a relationship? The answer was glaringly… painfully obvious.

  “No. For that you’d have to have been together in the first place.”

  Jon asked his question silently with only a cocked eyebrow.

  “Let’s just say we had different ideas about what was actually happening between us. His was reality. Mine was a stupid, naïve fantasy that had about as much basis in reality as flying pigs.”

  I couldn’t keep the bitterness out of my voice. It left a foul taste in my mouth, so I swallowed some more of my beer to wash it away.

  “Ouch. That’s a tough one. On a par with falling for a straight guy.”

  “You sound like you speak from experience.”

  “Oh yeah.” He snorted softly before taking a sip from his drink. “College roommate. I had it bad. Trust me, I had it real bad. Picture a puppy dog with big dopey eyes and a wagging tail, and that pretty much describes me back then.” He laughed and shook his head at his memories. “So you can trust me when I say you will get over it, Noah. It might take a little time, but you will move on.”

  “And in the meantime?”

  Jon laughed again. “That’s easy. You do what most men do: you get drunk and have lots of random, emotionless sex with strangers.”

  I raised my glass to him in a toast. “Well, here’s to anonymity!”

  17

  A LIGHT tap on my office door made me glance up from my computer screen, where I’d been shutting down the various programs I had open.

  “Hey, sexy, you ready to rock’n’roll?” Jon asked as he let himself in.

  “Just about.”

  “Good, because I, for one, am dying for a beer.”

  “Had a good day, then, have we?” I grinned at him as I logged off and rose from my seat, grabbing my jacket from the back of the chair.

  “If you can call budget analysis for the next fiscal year good, then I had an orgasmic day! How about you? How was your day?”

  I could have told him the truth, and he’d have been sympathetic and kind—the truth being, I’d checked my old e-mail address for the first time in three days to find nothing from my brother but five e-mails from Robert. Both truths were equally depressing, but I chose not to disclose either tidbit of information. I didn’t want to spoil the playful mood Jon had walked in with. With any luck, his mood would be contagious and rub off on me.

  Going for drinks together at 3160 on Friday evenings had become a routine. I looked forward to it. It was the highlight of my week.

  I suspected one word from me could move Jon and me into boyfriend rather than friend mode, but I never gave it. It was very tempting. It would be so damn easy to do. I liked him a great deal. He was intelligent, funny, great company, not to mention very attractive, but it would be wrong. He’d be a substitute, and he deserved so much more than that.

  And I needed a friend more than I needed a lover.

  I continued to visit the bathhouse, and I suspected Jon had his own way of seeing to business—we never spoke of it—but between us, though we flirted, things remained chaste and platonic.

  “Oh, I had a great day enlightening the first-year students on the differences between the teaching methods of modern colleges versus the French Academy. They were horrified to learn that, as artists, the French Academy would have expected them to be able to draw!”

  “Oh my God! Heresy! The idea alone is positively revolutionary!” Jon laughed, throwing his arms into the air dramatically.

  Settling my features into a serious expression, I wagged my finger at him in the same way my mother had done when she’d lectured me as a small child. “I can see, my friend, I need to educate you a little more about modern art.”

  “Only if it can be done while imbibing a liquid version of the grape, grain, or hop.”

  I sighed heavily. “The things I have to put up with.”

  “Yep, life’s tough at the top,” Jon chipped in, his grin belying his words. “Now get your butt moving, because I’ve had enough of this joint for one week.”

  Sliding my arms into the sleeves of my jacket, I smiled at him. “Me too.”

  As was usual for our Friday-night get-together, we drove separately to 3160. With a clap on my shoulder and an, “I’ll see you there,” he walked away from me to his car. A Jeep Wrangler. The first time we’d gone for a drink together after work he’d had the top down, but now, with autumn slowly losing footing in the battle against the approaching winter, he had it zipped up.

  Watching Jon maneuver out of the parking lot and into the traffic, I caught myself wondering what his Jeep said about him. Based on Robert’s theory, Jon’s cock was probably as thick as it was long. The thought no sooner slid into my mind than I clamped down on it and pushed it aside—I didn’t want to start my evening thinking about Robert or his damn theories.

  It didn’t take us long to reach our destination, and as I pulled in behind Jon, I snorted softly. If the distance we’d had to go to find a place to park was any kind of indicator, the club was in for a busy night.

  A shiver ran through me as I locked my car. It was a brisk night. After shoving my keys into the pocket of my jacket, I reached for my zipper, smiling when I looked up and saw Jon doing the same.

  “Remind me again why I wanted to return to Chicago,” Jon muttered while pulling his collar up.

  I chuckled. “Come on, my delicate little flower. Let’s get you inside. I’ll even buy the first round of, ah, painkillers.”

  “Now you’re talking, Daniels.”

  Within minutes we were ensconced at one of the upper-level tables, the sounds of the jazz trio on stage cloaking us in their sound. The volume was perfect, sti
ll allowing conversation. I was a relative newcomer to jazz, but Jon was a longtime aficionado and a huge fan of the lead singer of the trio. His crooning reminded me of the old Frank Sinatra vinyls my mother inherited from her mother and which Mitch still kept. We usually pulled them out to play at Christmastime. My stomach dropped at the thought that this could well be the first Christmas in many years I wouldn’t be listening to them.

  Our conversation started light, merely a recapping of our activities since we’d last gone out together for a drink after work. Jon bought the second round, and once he’d resumed his seat, he fixed me with a stern gaze.

  “Okay, Noah. Talk to me. As in really talk to me.”

  I didn’t insult him by pretending to not know what he meant. I hesitated for a moment longer, more from not knowing where to start than any real desire to brush him off. Initially, my intention was to summarize my journey of the past year, a mere recounting of the bare facts. But as soon as the first sentence passed my lips, it was as if I’d opened the stable door to a herd of wild horses striving for freedom. The words galloped out of me, barely allowing me time to draw breath between them.

  I proved my old professor, Ross Whedon, correct again—an academic, it seemed, truly did struggle to be brief—my outpouring was worthy of being classified as a dissertation. Luckily for Jon, I finally concluded my verbal diarrhea, saying, “So now I’ve lost everything. I have no family. Mitch has totally disowned me. And I hate him for it, but if he walked through the door right now, wanting me back in his life, I’d probably fall all over myself to forgive him. Because as much as I hate him, I also still love him. I miss him. I want my brother back. I miss Miranda. I miss Ricky and Jared. I miss being part of a family. And to make matters worse, I feel haunted. It’s like everywhere I turn, I see Robert. He’s in my home, my office, the lecture halls at SAIC. He’s in my car. My street. The grocery store. Even the bar I used to frequent. I can’t even do something as simple as switch on my computer without him popping up in my thoughts. He’s like a fever I just can’t shake off. My head tells me he did the right thing—he was being honest. He isn’t built for monogamy, and the longer I was around him, the more devastated I’d have been when he found some new, ah, toy he wanted to play with, but even knowing all of that, my heart doesn’t seem to want to let go.”