His Surrender

by Jaclyn Osborn

  Stop, I said to myself.

  “I don’t drink.” I grabbed my water and turned to face the room, my back against the bar.

  “Never?” he asked.

  “Not anymore.” I wouldn’t be diving into the reason either.

  He gave a small nod and brought the cigar to his lips, taking a long drag off it before exhaling the smoke.

  I stared at his mouth and swallowed the sudden dryness in my throat. I wanted nothing more than to drag his ass back to my place and fuck him—to taste the lips I’d been fantasizing about. Common sense stopped me from acting on it.

  After months of him coming to the 906 and never once speaking with me, why was he doing so now? What game was he playing?

  “What’s with the pissy look?” Jay asked.

  “I’m not giving a pissy look.” I took a drink and placed the glass back on the bar. “I’m just thinking.”

  “Ah, so you have resting bitch face. My friend Emery has the same thing.” He leaned toward me, his face so damn close. It was then that I noticed his long lashes. Because of course he had them. The man was hot and knew it too. “What’s goin’ on in that pretty head of yours?”

  “Pretty head?” I backed up a step, breaking the magnetic connection that’d been drawing us closer. “Do you always come on so strong to everyone you meet?”

  “Not everyone,” he said, the smile not only curving his lips but reflecting in his eyes as well. “Only the ones I like.”

  “You barely know me.”

  “I know enough to be interested.”

  “Yeah? What makes you think I’m interested in you?” I could’ve laughed at the shock in his green eyes. I got the feeling not many people ever turned him down.

  “So, you are straight,” he said, more as a statement as opposed to a question. “I thought you might be, but I had a hunch you were at least bi. I’m usually better at reading people.”

  The laugh I suppressed moments earlier came out then.

  “What’s so funny?” Jay asked.

  “It’s just funny that me not being into you automatically means I’m straight in your book.” Damn. I was being kind of a jerk, but I was tired of guys like Jay. Charmers and players.

  “In my experience, it does.”

  The ease in which he said that frustrated me further. How could someone be so confident? No, cocky. A small degree of cockiness could be kind of sexy, but too much made someone an asshole.

  “Ah. Because you’re that irresistible, huh?” I tilted my head up, meeting his smoldering gaze. “Maybe you’re just not my type. Enjoy the rest of your night, Mr. Foley.”

  His mouth popped open, and I turned to walk back toward the stage.

  Break time was over. The show had to continue. And the biggest show of all was the one I’d just played at the bar.

  Jay Foley was one hundred percent my type. Which was exactly why I needed to steer clear of him.

  Chapter 3

  Jay

  No one had ever spoken to me that way. I didn’t know how to react. Remington Barnett had slapped me in the face without even lifting a hand. That’s what it felt like anyway.

  As he went back to the stage and sat down at the piano, I threw back the last of my whiskey and paid my tab at the bar.

  You’re not my type.

  The fuck I wasn’t. He’d practically undressed me with his eyes the entire time we were talking. His rejection had come out of nowhere. Once I finally bit the bullet and approached him—after way too many nights of us checking each other out but not doing a damn thing about it—he pulled that shit. Well, screw him.

  I didn’t chase men; they chased me.

  If Remi wasn’t interested, there were plenty of other men who were.

  “You heading out already?” Brent asked. The waiter had been trying to get down my pants since the first time I’d come to the 906. I’d considered banging him, but he was way too young for me.

  “Long day today,” I answered.

  Remi looked over at us as he played, and he appeared way too engaged in my actions for someone who wasn’t interested. Did he know the waiter had a thing for me? Was that why a shadow crossed his face when eyeing the two of us standing close together and chatting?

  “I get off in thirty minutes if you wanna hang around a bit longer.” Brent nibbled his bottom lip, his gaze traveling up and down my body.

  The insinuation was crystal clear. A part of me wanted to take the cute waiter up on that offer too, if only to make the fedora-wearing, stubborn pianist jealous—one who looked away right as I glanced back at him.

  However, despite how tempting it was, I couldn’t do it. Brent was too nice of a guy, and while I had no problem using men for sex, it wouldn’t feel right. Because it wouldn’t be sex that drove me; it’d be some kind of twisted revenge toward a man I had no claim to.

  “As nice as that sounds, I’m gonna have to pass,” I told him.

  “Oh.” His face fell. “Maybe next time, then.”

  With one last glance toward Remi—who seemed way too focused on his piano—I left the warmth of the bar and walked outside. The cold night air assaulted my exposed skin, making me growl in annoyance as I headed for my car parked along the street. It had felt great before I’d gone inside. Stupid unpredictable weather.

  I couldn’t wait for spring.

  It was close to ten o’clock on a Friday night. I didn’t want to go home. Not alone anyway. Yet, I couldn’t find the motivation to do anything about it. The rejection bothered the hell out of me, and it was hard to figure out why. I wasn’t so arrogant to believe every gay man wanted me—even if most of them did.

  Had I misread the signs that bad? Maybe I really wasn’t Remi’s type. It was going to drive me crazy.

  I should forget about this Mr. Barnett and spend my time more productively, like calling the sexy fitness trainer again and having a repeat of the amazing sex from earlier that week.

  I called Emery instead.

  “Hey, Foley,” he answered on the fifth ring. He must’ve been preoccupied with a certain nineteen-year-old.

  “You think I’m hot, right?” I unlocked my car and slid inside before starting it and cranking up the heater.

  “Um. Is this a trick question?”

  “No, Cross. It’s a simple one, actually.” My car idled in the parking lot as I gave it time to heat up. I also didn’t know where I wanted to go just yet.

  “Jay, you’re a fucking god,” Cason said from the background. “You’re, like, worship-the-ground-you-walk-on kind of hot.”

  Emery chuckled, and I heard what sounded like a kiss before, “I think the better question is, why the hell are you asking? You don’t exactly lack anything in the confidence department.”

  “Is that your way of calling me an arrogant ass?”

  “So you do have a brain. I always wondered that.”

  “Fuck you,” I said with a laugh. “This is serious. A guy rejected me and I think I’m having a mental breakdown.”

  “Someone actually rejected you?” Emery asked, shock clear in his tone. “Wow. Guess it happens to everyone at least once.”

  “Yeah, but it doesn’t happen to me.” God, I really did sound like an arrogant ass. I sharply exhaled and slapped the steering wheel in frustration. “Pizdets!”

  “I don’t speak Russian, but I’m pretty sure I understand that one,” Emery said. “Listen, Foley. It happens. I’ve been rejected a few times too. Yes, it sucks, but you can’t sit and dwell on it.”

  He was right. But if I was being honest with myself, it wasn’t just the rejection that had my head so messed up in that moment. It was who rejected me. I’d been lusting after the pianist for months, having to muster all the self-control I had not to approach him because he was Foster’s teacher. Then I’d said screw it that night and finally went for it… only to be shut down.

  My ego was shattered.

  “I think it’s karma,” I muttered, putting the car in reverse and backing out of the parking spot. “I
’ve left behind a trail of broken hearts in my life and turned down people left and right. Now the universe is getting back at me.”

  “Are you going to tell me who this guy is?” Emery asked, before softly sighing. There was a low murmuring on his end of the phone, and I picked out the word behave followed by Cason lightly laughing. “It’s not like you to get so hung up on one guy. Wait… is it piano man?”

  “His name is Remington not piano man,” I said and then pressed my lips into a line. I’d given myself away.

  “Since when did you care enough about a guy to actually learn—and remember—his name? I think that shocks me more than you being rejected.”

  “I don’t care about him,” I said, turning right on the street. Toward home. Goddammit.

  “You specifically told me months ago that the dude wasn’t your type. You really are a lawyer. Lyin’ bastard.”

  “Takes one to know one, darlin’.”

  Emery responded with an amused scoff before he asked, “Where are you now?”

  “On my way home. Why, you worried about me?” I grinned at his rumbling chuckle.

  “Good night, Foley.”

  The call disconnected, and I continued toward home. Once there, I fed Sputnik before getting in bed and turning on the TV. As Cold Case Files played, I released a heavy sigh and rolled over, closing my eyes. I needed to put Remi out of my head and go back to my old self. Because this moping-around shit wasn’t me.

  A soft meow reached my ears. I sat up and looked down at Sputnik sitting on the floor. He could’ve jumped up on the bed if he tried, but my chubby man was too lazy for it, even when he wanted snuggles. I grabbed him and placed him beside me on the bed. He walked around a second, finding his spot beside my pillow, and then lay down, watching me with his big eyes.

  “Spokoynoy nochi,” I said, petting him.

  Good night.

  The next morning, my mom called and invited me to breakfast. I showered, dressed, and was out the door by eight o’clock. My parents lived in a nice suburban neighborhood, surrounded by homes with white picket fences and nosy neighbors—the kind that sat on their porches and watched everything that went on around them.

  “Morning, Jay!” Red, the older lady who lived across the street, said when I got out of my car. She dyed her hair fire-engine red—and had for as long as I could remember—and the nickname had stuck. She even told people to call her that.

  I flashed a polite smile. “Mornin’, Red.”

  “Still a charmer, I see. If only I was forty years younger.”

  I laughed and waved goodbye before walking up the steps to my parents’ house. The door swung open, and I was greeted by my mom. With the same shade of blonde hair and same green eyes, everyone said I favored her in appearance. Ivan did as well. But my brother and I shared Dad’s build and his strong jaw.

  “Dobroe utro,” Mom said, pulling me in for a hug.

  “Good morning,” I said back to her, kissing her on the cheek. “Something smells good.”

  “Your father wanted bacon, eggs, and pancakes. Big breakfast,” she said, her accent thick. “He gets what he wants.” She closed the door once I was inside.

  “You spoil him.”

  “No more than he does to me.” She smiled and looped her arm through mine as we walked to the kitchen. “You are hungry, yes?”

  “Da.” Yes.

  “Good,” she said, going over to the stove.

  Dad clapped me on the back. His dark hair had streaks of gray, and the hard lines around his eyes showed his years spent laughing. There’d been darkness in those years too. He’d served our country and seen things he still refused to talk about. “Glad you could come over, son.”

  “You know I’d never pass on Mom’s cooking. Is Ivan and Foss coming over too?”

  “Da,” Mom answered, taking a pan out of the oven.

  “Nat, honey, let me do that,” Dad said, going over and placing his hand at the small of her back. “Sit and rest. You’ve been in here all morning.”

  She muttered in Russian and swatted him away. He laughed and pulled her against him. Even after so many years together, they were still madly in love. I might not want the same for myself, but seeing them so happy nearly made me rethink that notion.

  Then I remembered him… the bastard I had tried so hard to forget. And the idea of love slipped back into the hell no department in my brain.

  Five minutes later, voices sounded outside the front door before it opened and Foster came through.

  “Solnyshka!” Mom said to Foster, hugging him tightly.

  Sunshine.

  Foster greeted her in Russian, and they talked as they made their way to the kitchen.

  “Wow,” Ivan said, shutting the door behind him and watching them walk away. “I feel the love.”

  “Ah, little bro.” I threw an arm around his shoulders and pulled him in for a noogie. “I’ll show you some love.”

  “I don’t want your love,” Ivan countered before shoving me away, the top of his hair now disheveled. “Jerk.”

  We joined the rest of the family in the dining room as Mom and Dad placed the food on the table, and then we sat to eat breakfast. Mom had made traditional American pancakes, but she’d also made sirniki, which were small Russian-style pancakes made of farmer cheese and served with jam on top. Mom always made hers with bananas too, which made them even more irresistible.

  “Spasiba,” I said as Mom placed several sirniki on a plate and handed it to me. She knew me well. I’d been eyeing those bad boys since I’d sat down.

  “You’re welcome,” she responded. “Tell me. Is there handsome man in your life?”

  “Mom,” I groaned. “I haven’t even taken a bite yet and you’re already hitting me with twenty questions.”

  Foster choked on a laugh, and Ivan rolled his eyes as he took a drink.

  “I worry about you,” she said.

  “Worry about Ivan.” I motioned to my brother sitting across from me. “He’s the one who just got divorced.”

  Truth be told, none of us had asked Ivan much about his divorce. He’d been married to Megan for almost fifteen years, and they’d always seemed like the perfect couple. It’d been a shock when he called me late one night in tears, saying she had left him. He’d given no reason why, and I hadn’t asked.

  “Vanya has broken heart,” Mom said, patting his hand. “Leave him be.”

  “Yeah, Jay.” Ivan smirked. “Leave me be.”

  Since we were in front of Mom, I refrained from spouting off an insult and instead raised my hand to pretend to scratch my jaw and flipped him off. He cocked a brow and took a drink of orange juice.

  “Uncle Jay?” Foster wiped his mouth on a napkin and looked up at me. So well mannered and polite. “Can you take me to school on Monday? I need to be there early.”

  “Sure. But why early?”

  “Mr. Barnett is going to help me practice the bass clarinet before school starts,” he responded.

  “If you can’t take him, I’ll figure something out,” Ivan said, the former playful banter between us forgotten. “I have an appointment that morning with my prosthetist, but I—”

  “It’s no problem,” I said, cutting him off because of course I’d help out. That’s what family did for each other. “I can take him. Is everything okay?”

  “My prosthesis is starting to bother me more frequently,” he answered. “I think it’s time for a replacement. They only last a few years, and this one is going on five.”

  “Do you want me to go with you to your appointment?” Dad asked him. No matter how old Ivan and I got, he’d always see us as his boys who needed protecting.

  Ivan smiled. “I can handle it, Pops.”

  Mom squeezed Ivan’s hand before focusing on her food.

  After breakfast, Ivan and I cleaned up the kitchen while our parents and Foster went into the living room.

  “I have a confession,” I said, rinsing off and drying the dish he’d just scrubbed. Mom hated dishwash
ers and liked everything done by hand.

  “I’m not a priest.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.” I bumped his shoulder and placed the plate on the drying rack. “I kind of have the hots for Foster’s teacher.”

  Ivan stopped washing the pan. “Huh? Which one?”

  “Mr. Barnett,” I answered. “He plays in a jazz band at the bar I always go to.”

  “Okay. So what’s the problem? Don’t you usually just bang a guy and move on?”

  “Yeah, but I was worried what Foss would think.”

  “Not like he’s gonna know,” Ivan pointed out. “Unless you’re wanting more than sex with this guy.”

  “Definitely not,” I said. “He’s hot, but there’s nothing deeper than that. Thing is… I came on to him last night, and he turned me down.” Just as Ivan started to laugh, I said, “I know, crazy, right? But it happened. And now I’m afraid things will be awkward. I don’t want him treatin’ Foss differently just because he’s irritated at me.”

  Which was exactly why I’d steered clear of the pianist for as long as I had.

  I’m an idiot. A selfish one.

  “Nah, if he’s as cool as Foss says, I doubt the guy will take it out on him,” Ivan said with a shake of his head. “And if he does, then he’ll be answering to me.”

  “Easy there, killer.”

  He grinned and went back to scrubbing the pan. “How did I get stuck with washing duty? You have the easy job.”

  “Being the oldest has its perks.”

  We finished with the dishes and wiped off the counters. Ivan then lightly slapped my arm with the back of his hand. “If you’re that worried about it, talk to the guy when you take Foster on Monday. Clear the air.”

  “I will.”

  Then, hopefully, I’d get out of this funk and move on. There were way too many men in the world for me to get so hung up on one of them.

  ***

  Monday morning, I drove to Ivan’s and got there around six forty. Foster walked outside with his backpack slung over one shoulder and wearing a white-and-blue hoodie with some anime thing on it. Cason would probably know what it meant, but hell if I did.