by Neve Wilder
“It’s funny,” Tom said, “I still think of hard-to-get as female territory.”
“No way. And it works exactly the same. I can’t get him out of my head.” I didn’t think Rob was playing hard to get, though. He was just either truly uninterested or playing it safe. And the only reason I didn’t think it was the first thing was because I’d seen a glimmer of something dark and heated when I’d been talking about the tattoo artist. Like curiosity with a possessive edge.
“Why do you think I’m still trying to get you?” I waggled my brows and Tom laughed.
“I’m an impossible case.”
“Would it help if I told you I was really good in bed?” Teasing Tom was always one of the highlights of my day, because it was so effortless to go back and forth when there wasn’t anything at stake. That wasn’t to say I wouldn’t have bagged him in a heartbeat. He was liquid gold with a body like granite.
“Not at all. You’d still be lacking two of my favorite parts.” Tom lifted his hands to chest height and grabbed the air like a goon before picking up his beer again. “You think if you bagged him, you’d be done?”
I tipped my head, considering. My track record wasn’t great. I’d always been down for a night or two, but I’d only had a couple of longer relationships, and not for any emo reasons tied into insecurity or daddy issues or anything. I just hadn’t found anyone I wanted to be around on a consistent basis.
Confession time. “I sucked his dick in a bathroom stall at a club. Like, a few months ago, though.”
Tom almost spit out his beer. “What? And you didn’t tell me when we showed up at his house to move? God, that’s fucking cruel.”
“No,” I countered. “It was smart. Because you would have been on me about it the whole time, thinking you were being subtle and making everything five times more awkward.”
“Why would it have been awkward? It was just a hookup, so what?”
“Well. He couldn’t remember my name. He’d given me a fake name, and he also ditched me after he got off.”
Tom winced through his laughter. “God, talk about a burn. How’d you even get with him in the first place?”
I told him about the night at Liberation, a popular gay club just outside of Savannah, how I’d been hunting a hookup on the dance floor, but it was the same old crowd I was used to. When the app on my phone had pinged with a message, I’d stood at the end of the bar and stared at the screen display of a well-put-together older dude. I was intrigued. Not because older guys didn’t hit on me, but it was his picture, I think. No smile, just a straightforward gaze into the camera. No additional ab or dick pics or oil-slicked torsos. His headshot and the line, The app says you’re here. I am, too. Care for a dance? The no-games forwardness of that text had me responding and directing him to meet me near the DJ booth. He’d been direct once I was standing in front of him, too. We’d exchanged names and he led me onto the dance floor, his hands on my hips. Minutes later, we were kissing, and minutes after that, clambering toward the bathroom.
“I pinged him through the app after, and the next day, too, but he never responded which was fine, because who really cares, right?” I shrugged.
Tom was still snickering.
“And technically, I don’t think he’s playing hard to get. I think he’s got a lot on his mind. I mean, his dad died recently and he’s trying to sell that house and it sounds like there’s something going on with his job, too.”
“That’s, like, red flag kind of stuff.” Tom’s brows drew together.
I shook my head around a swallow of beer. “Nah. It’s just…actually, it doesn’t matter. He’s a decent guy and I’ll finish helping him fix up his house and we’ll both move on. No loss.”
“He is a dude, though.”
I waited to see where he was going to go with that.
“Every guy gets horny, no matter what the fuck he’s going through. My grandma could have a two-by-four crushing her leg and if a hot chick walked by, my head would turn and I’d instantly imagine her naked. You’d do the same. Don’t lie.”
“That doesn’t make you a guy, that makes you a dick.” I laughed.
“Well, I guess if my grandma’s going to get hurt, she’d better do it when no one’s around to distract me.” Tom stuck his tongue out like a child, but he got away with shit like that because he was cute.
An hour later we were down to the dregs of our bucket of beers. I was pleasantly swimmy. Not drunk, but cottony around the edges, my arms and legs heavy. There was a baseball game on one of the seven TVs on the patio that we paid intermittent attention to, but most of Tom’s focus was on the girls who’d joined our table. That was his doing, of course.
They were cute. Juniors at UVA on summer vacation for a week. Tom had his game face on and was telling them some of the highlights and funnier stories we’d picked up during our moves and junk hauling. I had to give it to him, he was charming, all white smiles and sparkling eyes and easy-going disposition. One of the girls, Jill, was an art history major, so we found some common ground talking about different art movements. She was into classics and, per usual, I was all over the map and couldn’t pick a favorite.
“Hey, speak of the devil,” Tom said when his attention slid back to one of the screens above the bar.
I had to crane my head over my shoulder to see what he was talking about. The crowd thinned for a second and then swelled as people filled a vacancy at the bar left by a departing couple, but I only needed a second to recognize the profile. Rob had somehow scored some prime real estate at the bar. I got a glimpse of his elbow, one hand loosely wrapped around a beer, a few shreds of label on the bar top next to him. Between shoulders, elbows, and heads, I could see his attention fixed to the baseball game on the TV. I’d told him about this bar and a handful of others nearby a few days earlier, but this one was closest to his parents’ house.
“Huh.”
“Invite him over,” Tom suggested.
“Nah. Guy’s out to enjoy his beer. I’m not going to interrupt him.” Or maybe he was cruising, and I wasn’t going to interrupt that, either.
And I meant that, except…another beer later, I decided I should at least say hi. I mean that was the polite thing to do, right?
So I picked up my beer and weaved through the scent of perfume and deodorant working overtime. A lot of prowling, slinking, and apologetic smiles later, I’d worked my way into a small wedge of space between Rob’s stool and the one occupied by a beefy jock next to him.
He didn’t seem to see me at first, the mouth of his beer resting on his lower lip mid-sip as he watched whatever excitement was happening on screen.
“So I can add baseball to the list,” I said. So smooth.
Rob registered me with a flustered widening of his eyes. “The list?” One brow winged up. I’d never seen him do it before, but it was crushingly cute.
“In addition to running and your not-favorite-book, Pride and Prejudice.”
“Ahh, right.” He gave a little laugh that was low and limber, maybe a product of the beer and its empty mate still sitting in front of him. “It’s more along the lines of something to stare at that’s not a bouncing group of girls or a bro-fisting horde of jocks.”
“Not your scene, huh?”
“Maybe ten years ago. But at least the beer’s cold. I don’t plan on staying long.”
“You’re more into club chairs and fancy mixed drinks and people who call you sir?”
“I’d take club chairs and air conditioning right now. I can live forever without the sir.”
“You’d need to go about five miles west of here. Boca’s. I told you about it.”
“I’ll remember that. So is this your scene?” His eyes landed on me and it felt like an additional layer of heat slathering my body.
“I’m not particular,” I admitted.
“I’ve gathered.”
“What does that mean?”
Rob’s gaze was more assessing this time. Then he lifted one shoulder. �
�You just come off as somewhat freewheeling.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Are you implying I’m a slut?”
He inclined his chin at me, a little smile playing at the corners of his lips. It was irritatingly charming. “No. I’m implying that I think you’re a bit of a flirt.”
“So now you’re slut shaming me. Do I need to point out the hypocrisy again?”
I caught my lip ring with my teeth and that dark flash I’d seen earlier passed through his eyes again. He averted his gaze, focusing on his beer and flicking at droplets of condensation.
“I’m not going to deny I’m a flirt.” I was prepared to defend a perfectly harmless and enjoyable pastime, but just then someone’s elbow slammed into my side. I swerved away from the blunt impact and lost my grip on my beer.
It careened to one side and then toppled onto the counter, spilling everywhere at the same time my shoulder slammed into Rob’s. He had quick reflexes, though, one hand steadying his own beer and the other dropping low against my back just as mine clamped down on his thigh to keep me from going the way of my beer. The muscles beneath my hand were solid and tensed. His fingers spread across the dip in my back and it was electrifying, even if he was distracted, shooting a glare over his shoulder at the culprit.
When the voltage of his touch stopped zinging me into dizziness, I whirled to look, too. A girl with a tight ponytail and wide eyes flapped her hands dramatically. “I’m so sorry!” she mouthed as a hand grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her back into the overspill from the dancefloor.
I released Rob’s thigh, picked up a few napkins and mopped at the bar. Rob’s hand retreated, though I wished it wouldn’t have.
“That was overkill.”
It took me a second to realize he was teasing me about being a flirt.
My eyes narrowed. “I wouldn’t resort to desperate measures like that to get someone’s hands on me. Please. I go either very subtle or very direct, but never gimmicky.”
“So you say.” Rob gave me a long, appraising gaze that I rolled my eyes at. I pushed the wad of soggy napkins to the edge of the bar and waved to catch the bartender’s eye. When I asked for another beer, Rob interrupted with a five dollar bill.
“See, I’m not even going to say anything suggestive about you buying me a drink.”
“Good,” he said, “Because it’s just me being nice.”
But I wasn’t sure I believed the gleam in his eye. The phantom warmth of his touch lingered across my back.
Once the bartender returned with my beer, Rob slid from his stool. “I’m going to head home.”
“It’s early. Come hang out with us for a drink. Tom insists.”
“Tom? Oh, right.” Rob shot a wary glance in the direction I’d pointed.
The girls were taking shots and Tom appeared to be in the middle of another story that involved wild hand gestures. I sensed a tipping point in Rob somewhere, and I was determined to find it.
“What do you have to do tomorrow? The buckets and paintbrushes aren’t going anywhere and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to edge the ceilings.” I didn’t know why I was being so insistent, it wasn’t my style, but I liked this more relaxed, playful version of Rob. There was warmth and humor to him once he’d removed his professional-strength armor.
His mouth twisted as he considered, then said, like he was delivering a verdict, “All right, a couple of beers. Lead the way.”
I felt him behind me all the way to the table, solid and close. I’d have been lying if I’d said I didn’t want more of that.
7
Rob
I’d always found bar introductions to be among the more pointless necessities in life. Too hard to hear, and no way to follow it up with any kind of meaningful conversation. Or even casual talk of the weather. It was awkward to learn someone’s name and then begin shouting in their ear trying to be heard, so when Alex made quick introductions around the table, I gave everyone a polite, impersonal nod, already regretting my decision to come along. I forgot the names of the girls as soon as they gave them, except Emma, who stood to my left, close enough that we stood a chance of conversation. Tom tried to interest everyone in a round of shots and it turned out everyone was interested except Alex and me.
Emma shouted, “Do you mind?” and then handed me her drink as she lifted her shot glass.
I learned she was a senior studying finance, which gave us enough fodder for five minutes of conversation between song changes and shot glasses. I sensed Alex’s gaze landing on me several times and when I’d look over, I’d find his expression contemplative in a way that added a kind of maturity to his face. It was evident he was one of those rare species whose looks would improve with each passing year, and he wasn’t hurting to begin with. If I consulted the feeling in the pit of my stomach every time I caught him eyeing me, it would tell me I was interested. But of course, I already knew that. Had known that.
Eventually, he got caught up in conversation with one of the other girls, whose name I thought was Jill. Her animation was contagious and Alex was soon making wild gestures in response to hers. They laughed together. I could only guess at what they were talking about, because I sure as hell couldn’t hear it. And I didn’t need to hear Tom at all. One glance at him and…Marie? said he was committed to the long slide toward home base. Possibly a short slide if they kept pounding shots.
Tom and Marie made their way to the dance floor which, as with most bars, had a reciprocal relationship to the hour and number of drinks consumed. It was nearing eleven-thirty, and people were spilling over, a lot of sloppiness of movement and laughter and shouts that, years ago, I would have been among.
Like a chain reaction, once Tom and Marie were absorbed by gyrating bodies, Jill started tugging at Alex’s arm. The final link was Emma, who gave me a questioning, if hesitant smile before I splayed my palms open in surrender. I didn’t want to be that guy. And besides, as Alex had said before, why not?
She could two step a little, I could waltz a lot, and my club days hadn’t completely abandoned me, either. It was like riding a bike. We shuffled and bumped around the dance floor in a rhythmic manner that wasn’t a total disgrace. Tom made out with Marie, and Alex wove in and out of my field of vision with Jill, his hands low and loose on her hips, his eyes dedicated to her lips while she spoke. Watching them got the pit of my stomach talking again. Maybe he liked her. I had no idea.
I twirled Emma and she caught herself on my shoulder, overcorrecting. We laughed as she swept at a strand of hair plastered to her cheek, her hip pressing coyly up against mine. It was nice holding onto another body again, even if it wasn’t the kind of body I wanted, and I smiled down at her, realizing that I was enjoying myself. It washed over me, a pleasant sensation of unwinding eased by the beers I’d had.
“You’re quiet,” she said over the music, her mouth close to my ear.
I had to duck my head and turn into the scent of perfume wafting up from her neck to be heard in return. “Kind of hard to talk in here and besides, I’m a little out of my element.”
She leaned back a bit, her eyes searching mine as she crinkled her pert little nose. She was a knockout, chestnut hair, pretty brown eyes, nice lips. “You’re a good dancer and good-looking,” she said. “Very Fassbender. I think you fit in just fine.”
“Very what?”
“Fassbender. Michael Fassbender?” It took me a second to understand the name, and then conjure up the face. I laughed. “You have a generous spirit.”
She giggled. “No, really. I mean it.” Then, she sobered, setting her jaw. “But I’m not going home with you tonight. I promised myself I wouldn’t do another one-night stand for at least a month.”
The whole conversation had taken on a kind of absurdist quality that fit the atmosphere around us.
“A whole month,” I repeated, trying for an expression of consternation. “My loss.”
Alex and Jill closed in alongside us, and Emma shouted at Jill over my shoulder.
&nbs
p; “Doesn’t he look like Fassy?”
I caught Jill’s scrutiny out of one corner of my eye, though my focus was hovering in a different place altogether, along my back where Alex’s shoulders gently grazed mine. His ass brushed against me as Jill leaned into him to answer.
“He kind of totally does, oh my God!”
They giggled together and I canted my head back. Alex had turned and the length of his arm pressed against my spine. He smiled a lazy, private smile that went straight to my cock because of how it seemed like something that would be more at home pressed against a pillow. Preferably mine.
The DJ took a break, the house music came on, and we all lumbered back to the table. Tom consulted with another table full of people behind him and, when he turned around again, he said, “Party’s moving down to the beach after we close our tabs.”
“That’s my cue to head home.” I polished off my beer and checked my watch. I was well past my prime of pre-gaming until midnight and then partying ‘til dawn.
“Aww, come on.” Alex gave me a thumbs down and the girls chimed in as well.
“It’s a rule isn’t it, always give a hard time to the first person leaving?”
“It is.” Alex frowned with mock solemnity. “Come on, you’ve had what, three beers tonight? Another one won’t hurt you. The beach at night is worth it.”
“I know. I spent plenty of summers in my twenties enjoying it. At least, what I can remember of it.”
“So old,” Alex teased.
“Practically a silver fox.” Jill leaned closer to inspect me, running a light touch of her finger over my temple. I watched Alex’s eyes dart to follow the motion. “I don’t see any silver, though.”
“It’s coming. The longer I hang out with you all.”
“We need a chaperone.” Alex flashed me an impish grin.
It wasn’t just that he was hard to resist. It was the night, the carelessness and haphazardness of it that brought me back to those summers when I came home from college and spent days interning in the city or baking on the beach, nights soaked in booze and dusted in sand; kisses in the dark, fumbling, hurried hands. I did want to stay, and why the hell shouldn’t I? I was an adult, after all. Of course, that was also the reason I should go home.