by Cara McKenna
Adam shoved aside the distracting thought of this stranger’s more personal bodily fluids to ask, “Who’s winning?”
A tight little smile told him the guy wasn’t in the least bit charmed.
“Well, quarters say I’ve got winner.”
The man set his stick on the felt, knocking balls out of place. “You can have the whole fucking table if you want it that badly.”
He felt his brows rise. “Hey, forget it. I was just trying to flirt. My mistake.” Adam gathered his coins and left the guy to the company he so clearly preferred.
Annoying how he only wanted to get fucked by him all the more, after that little run-in. Pack that away in the jack-off vault, filed under Get bent over a pool table by that British asshole from Hadley’s. Might just use that one later this evening, in fact.
He took a seat at the far end of the bar, thinking his rebuffed attempt to mingle was a sign it was too soon. He’d chat with the bartenders instead. Still good practice, just being out again, talking to guys instead of hiding at home, babying his wounds.
After a few minutes, the sting of failed flirtation faded, and Adam was proud to find he’d managed to keep his eyes off the pool table jerk with little struggle. Then a beer was plunked before him, his current one barely half done.
“Wow,” he said to the bartender. “I really look that in need of it, huh?” He reached for his wallet but it was waved away.
“It’s from that guy,” the bartender said, nodding.
In the split second it took to turn his head, Adam was already guessing which of the cuter guys he hoped had bought him a round. But to his shock, it was the huge Brit, who was now standing with his unreasonably large arms crossed over his chest in the middle of the floor, gaze glued to the television behind the bar.
“Oh. Well, thanks.” He blinked at the glass then squinted at the barman. “You didn’t let him spit in it, right?”
A laugh. “No. You’re safe.”
Was he, though? Adam wondered with a glance at the large man. The beer clearly didn’t come with a side of conversation—the guy was thoroughly, maybe willfully immersed in whatever was playing on the TV. Too distracted for Adam to even raise the glass in a polite thank-you gesture. Oh well. The drink itself was probably just a cursory apology, no thanks needed.
He sipped his half-drunk beer, peeking sideways now and then but finding the other man wholly preoccupied. Then, after maybe five minutes of that nonsense, their eyes locked. They locked and they stayed locked, until the stranger finally dropped his crossed arms and strolled over.
“Thanks,” Adam said, lifting his glass.
“No worries. Sorry for being a dick before.”
“Everyone gets to be a dick sometimes.”
Neither spoke for an awkward moment then Adam decided to attempt to lighten the mood. “You know this is a gay bar, right?”
The man smirked for the thinnest second, and nodded. “Only gay bar in town where they show rugby.”
Adam glanced at the TV and nodded. “Before you get too misty for your homeland, I think it’s mainly for the uniforms.”
Another tight smile, if a grudging one. “Good a reason as any.”
“You feel like sitting down?”
The guy contemplated it then accepted the invitation, sliding onto the closest stool. He kept his eyes on the bottles or the mirror behind them. Intense eyes, Adam noted, maybe blue, maybe hazel, tough to tell in the glow from the neon beer signs.
They sat in heavy silence for a minute or so then a truck went cruising by on the street, country music blaring.
The stranger shook his head. “I bloody hate this town.”
Adam nodded. “Me too. But I had to suffer through high school here, so I get to say it.”
A wry smile, devoid of amusement.
“What’s up your ass?” Adam asked. “Or are you always this cheerful?”
“Breakup.”
“Ah. Fresh?”
The man checked the bar clock. “Five hours?”
Danger, danger. Still—big, angry man with an accent, on the rebound? Stupid ideas didn’t get much hotter than that one. And Adam was still basically on the rebound himself. “I had one of those, three weeks ago. You dump, or get dumped?”
“I cut him loose. But he hasn’t exactly been making me feel welcome in his life, the past few months.”
Adam made a grim, commiserating face. He realized he had two glasses before him, the other man none. “What’s your misery drink?”
“Pint of bitter.”
“That’s like an IPA, right?”
He nodded. Adam caught the bartender’s eye and ordered a Dire Wolf.
The beer was delivered shortly and the stranger gave a broody little nod, and they tapped glasses. “Cheers.”
“To moving on,” Adam offered.
“To running the fuck away.”
“Even better. Do you have a name, or should I keep thinking of you as That Grumpy English Asshole?”
Finally, a real smile. “That’s not the worst thing I’ve been called. But Stephen’s fine.” He offered a hand and Adam shook it.
“Adam. Are you Stephen, or Steve?”
The grip tightened to the threshold of pain. “Stephen, if you value your fingers.”
“Stephen,” Adam confirmed, and the shake concluded without grievous injury.
His surly companion took a sip of his beer. “My old man’s Steve. And I’ve got no interest in turning into him anytime soon.”
“Gotcha. What brought you to the States?”
“My ex.”
“So what’s keeping you here?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely nothing,” Stephen said, gaze cast thoughtfully down at the shiny wood of the bar. “Decent-paying job’s about all that’s keeping me from running for the airport. Can’t say I’ve got the same waiting back home, so who bloody knows. I don’t even know where I’m staying tonight, let alone next week or next month.” He carefully centered his drink before him on the coaster. “This is all I’m going to focus on, for right now.”
“You guys were living together, then?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s always a mess. Sorry.”
A shrug. “Life’s a mess. This is just par for the course.”
Adam nodded, glad he was over that stage with his ex—the fallout, the freshly flayed skin. And given this was his first night out since the breakup, it was only fitting therapy that he run into this guy, have this conversation. That he felt like, yes, this happens to all of us. Dust yourself off and climb back onto the saddle, or whatever metaphor got you over yourself.
“You fancy that game you offered earlier?” Stephen asked after a few minutes’ silence.
“Sure. I suck at pool though.”
“That’s perfect. I suck at losing.”
They rose and grabbed their beers. “Not a Lady Gaga fan?” Adam asked as they selected cues. The tease earned him exactly what he’d been hoping for from Stephen—a mean, playful glare.
“You break,” Adam said as he crouched to fill the slots with quarters. Balls tumbled and clacked and he racked them, relieved to do a smart-looking job of it in front of this manly stranger. He rolled the cue ball across the felt and stepped back to sip his beer while Stephen broke. Crack-click, and balls went everywhere, a stripe disappearing down a side pocket, solid in a corner.
Stephen eyed the lay of the table a moment. “Solids.”
He sank a couple balls in a row before Adam got a chance to humiliate himself. But as he sized up his situation, he noted that several stripes were within blowing distance of pockets. “You handicapping yourself?” he asked Stephen.
A noncommittal shrug answered him.
“Not that I’m complaining,” Adam added, and dropped a stripe, then another.
“You don’t suck so badly,” Stephen said, as Adam lined up a harder shot. He nearly got it but scratched. “Take that back—maybe you do.”
Adam grinned, suddenly far more interested
in being taunted than impressing this guy with his nonexistent pool shark skills. It was probably just the alcohol’s doing, but he felt as if they were engaged in a mating dance, circling the table, passing one another, each shot some attempt to impress. So much bending over and chalking of one’s stick, so many balls and holes and other juvenile, low-hanging double entendres.
Self-handicapped or not, Stephen sank the eight with four of Adam’s stripes still languishing on the felt. They shook hands, and Adam toyed with asking for a rematch. It’d keep Stephen’s body within ten feet of his for a little while longer, a strong enticement.
“I’d try to redeem myself,” he offered, “but I’m out of quarters.”
“Lost cause,” Stephen said with a smile, taking Adam’s cue and putting it away, along with his.
“True.” Adam picked up his glass and, to his great pleasure, Stephen did the same, resting an elbow on the high ledge that ran along the wall, clearly content to loiter and chat. Well, well.
Adam tore his gaze off Stephen’s arm and directed it at his stern face. Strong nose, bedroom eyes. David had been such a studious shaver, and Adam wondered how Stephen’s two days’ worth of stubble would feel against his own chin.
“So, where in England are you from?”
“I grew up in the North, but escaped to London when I was twenty-two. And you’re from around here?”
Adam nodded. “Small town, twenty miles outside the city. Nice place. You know, if you’re into football and Jesus and pussy.”
Stephen laughed, the sexiest noise Adam had ever heard.
“Which I’m not,” Adam went on. “No offense to Jesus. Well, actually, plenty of offense to Him. He never answered my prayers in junior high and made me straight, so fuck Him, too.”
“I’m sure He fancies you just fine gay,” Stephen offered.
“That’s not what my parents seemed to think, at first.”
“Maybe He just fancied torturing you, then.”
“Sounds about right. But whatever. My dad’s driving around with an equals-sign sticker on his tailgate now. And I survived high school without a single actual lynching from the football team.”
“I’m sure there’s plenty of porn to that effect, if you’re feeling left out of the experience.”
Adam laughed. “Think I’ll pass. Nothing about my upbringing strikes me as particularly erotic. Certainly not football players. Rugby though,” he said, faking deep pensiveness. “That I could probably get behind.”
Stephen tapped his glass to Adam’s in agreement.
“What about you?” Adam asked between sips of beer. “Who are you into?”
“Men. Gay men.”
“Well, that’s a broad range. Like, more femme guys, or—”
“Just gay blokes. I’m not choosy.”
Adam felt a couple of things—excited, because he happened to be such a thing, but also a bit let down, since it apparently took so very little to qualify as doable in Stephen’s rather hefty and inclusive book.
“When was the last time you kissed a guy?” Stephen asked. “A guy aside from your ex, I mean. A first kiss with someone.”
“Ooh. Probably nine months, or close to it. You?”
Stephen lowered his head, seeming to study Adam’s shoes or the floor. “Two and a half years, almost.”
“Wow. You were together a long time, you and your ex.”
“Sort of. Together a year in London, then long distance for six months, then together here for ten.”
“But you didn’t mess around with other people the whole six months you were apart? Or even kiss anyone?”
He shook his head. “Not my idea, but I thought I loved him. Or I did love him at the time, so I went along with it. Plus it was that idiot kind of love, where you really don’t fancy kissing anyone else.” He shook his head, as though he couldn’t believe he’d ever suffered from such a frightening condition.
“It must have been special, if you moved here for him.”
Stephen shrugged. “I thought it was.”
Sipping his beer, Adam wished he didn’t feel let down by the conversation. He wasn’t in the market for anything serious, so what did he care if this guy was clearly still hung up on his ex?
“I don’t really feel like chatting about all that,” Stephen said.
“Sure, understood.” Adam’s collar felt tight when Stephen took a step closer.
“Actually,” the man said, “I came here looking to put all that out of my head.”
“Oh. Good for you.”
Another step and they were practically toe-to-toe, Adam’s back pinned to the ledge. Mercy.
“And to remember what it’s like to kiss other men, after all that time,” Stephen murmured, so close Adam could catch each word and the intention behind it.
“I see.”
“Is that completely insulting?” Stephen asked, near enough for Adam to feel his warm breath and to know exactly what he’d taste of. Dire Wolf.
“Insulting?”
“That I’m basically looking to cleanse my palate with somebody.” As Stephen said “somebody”, his gaze dropped demonstrably from Adam’s face to his middle and back up again. Adam felt very, very pleasantly targeted. He angled his arm awkwardly to set his beer farther along the ledge. He stared at Stephen’s mouth, an inch or so above his own, just enough to make him feel smaller—a welcome sensation that he’d missed after all those months with David. He felt the toe of Stephen’s boot butt his shoe.
“Should I be insulted?” Adam asked.
“Up to you.”
Adam swallowed. He’d gotten hot and heavy in this bar plenty of times but never on such a quiet night. Still, he wanted to get ravaged far more than he wanted to avoid being the most gawk-worthy spectacle in the joint.
“I don’t mind being insulted.” Not by this man. This man could demand far more demeaning things of Adam and he’d acquiesce, eagerly.
Stephen pressed his face to Adam’s neck and took a deep, harsh breath. “Fuck, you smell good.”
The change in this stranger was abrupt, as if a cork had popped to let pent-up urges escape. Adam felt tipsy. He stroked the soft bristle of Stephen’s hair. “Thanks.”
“What is that?”
“Aftershave, probably.”
Another breath, a drag off Adam’s skin. “You smell like winter. Like Christmas.”
“I think that’s cedar.” Adam didn’t care, frankly. Whatever kept this gorgeous man’s face close was fine by him. When Stephen planted both hands on the wall behind Adam, arms bracketing his shoulders, Adam forgave God for all those unanswered prayers he’d issued twenty years earlier. This moment made up for it. Utterly.
Adam cleared his throat and managed to mutter, “Two and a half years, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s a long time.”
“You have no bloody idea.” Stephen pulled his head away an inch or two, enough that they could stare each other straight in the eyes. Adam swallowed again. Stephen’s gaze dropped and for perhaps four seconds, he seemed hesitant. Reality blinked out as their lips brushed, the world reduced to the heat of skin, the brush of stubble, the weight of the hot hand suddenly cupping the nape of Adam’s neck. He tilted his jaw, welcoming whatever Stephen wanted.
The kiss was rough, deep and dirty, straight out of the gate. As if their mouths were fighting, or hate-fucking. Then something odd happened—it calmed and slowed. Adam felt more than just the hot intrusion of Stephen’s tongue, but its actual strokes, explicit and exploratory. Even sweet. He listened to their flaring breaths, blood warming at the feeling of this stranger’s rough, broad palm on his neck. Before he knew it, there was no tongue at all, only curious nips of teeth and lips, the brush of noses and chins.
Excitement turned to ease, and ease to nothingness as they broke apart, eyes locking. The bar rematerialized around them.
“You feel like getting out of here?” Stephen asked.
It was forward. Awfully forward. Probably an aw
fully awful idea as well, but fuck it. Adam could text a friend that he was leaving with somebody, and hope that if his body turned up mutilated the next morning, at least the murder would happen after the ill-advised sex. And hopefully the sex would be wholly worth getting mutilated over.
He nodded. “Sure.”
Chapter Three
“It’ll have to be yours,” Stephen said as he held the door open for Adam.
“That’s fine. I’m only six blocks away.” Six blocks that would feel like forever, Adam knew already.
It was that strange time of year when the outside air was the same temperature as the inside air. With no breeze, the world felt bizarre, like one big bar itself, neon signs all along the bustling street, something vibrant humming just under Adam’s skin. Could be the bourbon or beer, the sheer intoxication of new attraction. The thrill of being chased or the relief of knowing he was still worth chasing.
Barely a block from the bar, Stephen’s gait stuttered and he paused to pull a buzzing phone from his pocket. He hit a button then made a grim face, gaze zigzagging in the phone’s glow as he read a text.
“Your ex?” Adam asked.
“Yeah.”
“Feel free to reply. I’ll use the opportunity to tell a friend I’m bringing some weirdo home with me.”
It earned him a little smile, but Stephen shook his head. “I told him I wasn’t coming back, except to get my stuff tomorrow. He knows not to expect me.” He held down a button long enough that he had to be switching the device off for good. The screen went dark and he pocketed it. “But you go ahead and text your friend. I’m Stephen with a P-H, Rowe with an E. Just make me sound real unsavory, please.”
Adam laughed, and tapped out a quick message. “Sent.”
They continued their walk.
“So I take it you and your ex didn’t live together,” Stephen said.
“No. We’d talked it about, but thankfully we both still had leases. Oh God, how pathetic that my longest relationship didn’t outlast my lease.” He shook his head.
“Not as pathetic as some tales I could tell you.”
“So you’re homeless for the night?” Adam asked.
“Yeah. Speaking of which, I better stop someplace and find a toothbrush and deodorant, before the shops close.” He scanned the storefronts.