We Were Here: A New Adult Romance Prequel to Geoducks Are for Lovers (Modern Love Stories Book 1)

by Daisy Prescott

  Lizzy took an empty seat and hugged one of the strangers. “Oh my gosh, that’s terrible. AIDS is heartbreaking, horrible.” She patted one of his arms. “My uncle’s neighbor has it. In Miami.”

  Her uncle’s neighbor. Aaron. Keith Haring. Rock Hudson. Freddie Mercury. Little Ryan White. An endless list of names and nameless faces of the dead or infected ran through my head.

  “To our friends who are no longer here, but still with us.” She poured another shot and raised her glass.

  The motley group clinked glasses with her.

  Two shots of whiskey were enough to give us a buzz. We skipped the other cocktails. Instead, we sat at the table and listened to old stories of the glory days of bath houses and wild Quaalude fueled parties.

  I had to cover Lizzy’s ears a couple of times. I didn’t want her to think all gay men were complete sexual deviants. Some of us wanted the husband, two-point-five kids, and a pure bred lab like anyone else.

  By the time we left, I felt I’d inherited seven gay uncles. They were like Snow White’s dwarves, including Carl in his powder blue cardigan, who kept falling asleep at the far end of the table.

  Lawrence, the skinny one who first spoke to us, gave me a somber warning about reckless behavior. “At your age, you think you’ll live forever. But we all die someday. Don’t make it sooner because you were stupid, arrogant, and young.”

  I gave him a salute and my word.

  Outside, Lizzy snapped a picture of the neon sign. “Forget a fairy godmother, I want godfather fairies.”

  I loved her acceptance of everyone she met. It had always been one of my favorite qualities about her. “I’ll be your fairy godfather, Lizzy.”

  “Promise?” She clapped her hands.

  “On one condition.”

  “If I ever fall in love—”

  She interrupted to correct me, “When, not if.”

  “Okay, when I fall in love, and if—”

  “When.”

  “Fine, when I fall in love and when we have a commitment ceremony, you’ll be there standing beside me.”

  “Of course! You couldn’t keep me away from it. I’ll wear a pretty vintage dress and toss birdseed like a pro. Or we could release butterflies. Oh! We could throw glitter.” Her favorite charm bracelet jingled when she tossed imaginary glitter.

  “No glitter.” I hugged her and kissed her forehead.

  “Who knows? You could be a dad someday, too. Then I’ll come over and babysit for you. Auntie Mame will have nothing on Auntie Lizzy.”

  I laughed at her optimism. “Are you going to carry the baby, too?”

  “For you? Anything, Q.”

  I completely believed her. When we were together, she convinced me I could do anything. Me having a family? Crazy, but at least one of us believed in the impossible.

  “Finally” ~ CeCe Peniston

  POST HOLIDAYS, I bribed Moping Maggie to get out of the apartment with the promise of French coffee and pastries at the Heron Bakery. I figured maybe something French in her mouth would help. First, I’d made her shower and change out of her pajamas.

  All last year I’d dealt with Grumpy Gil. Magpie was home, and he’d become David Copperfield. Poof! Gone. Disappeared. I barely saw him.

  Every once in a while, he’d hang out with the group at Lucky’s, but ever since last summer, things had changed. No more sleepovers with Maggie. In fact, they never spent time together at all unless it was the entire group.

  Hell, none of us really spent much time with him. He claimed a lack of time with a heavy class load and studying for the GREs, plus work and band rehearsal.

  He could say all those things were the reason, but he lied like a rug. He avoided Maggie. Spent a year pining, then he couldn’t get away from her fast enough.

  It was the worst non-break up break up ever.

  Nothing could be done.

  Maggie fell in love with love. Gil was determined to be “fine.”

  If my heart wasn’t cold and black, it would have hurt for them both.

  I could only meddle so much in the love affairs of my friends. A few weeks ago a random postcard from London arrived for Lizzy. She’d clutched it to her chest and refused to talk about it despite my finest attempts to wiggle the truth out of her.

  Not that I had my own love life to fret over. The most action I’d seen had been the random street kiss at Halloween. Three months ago.

  Sad, sad, sad.

  Inside the Heron, Maggie saved us a table while I waited at the counter to order drinks from the very cute blond guy behind the counter

  “A cafe au lait for my friend the francophile and the biggest, blackest cup of joe for me.”

  “No one here is named Joe.” The cute barista winked at me.

  He. Winked. At. Me.

  Flustered, I stumbled over my words. “I’ll . . . have you. I mean . . . take you . . . have whatever you’re having.” I glanced at his name tag. “Warren.”

  Charming and handsome chuckled and leaned his elbows on the top of the pastry case. His biceps stretched the cotton of his black T-shirt. “I’m having a break in about twenty minutes. If you’re interested.”

  I stumbled to our table in a daze of bulging muscles and winks.

  “Where are the coffees?” Maggie stared at my empty hands.

  “They’re right here.” Warren placed a beautiful bowl of cafe au lait in front of her. In front of me, he set a very tall mug of black coffee. “Can I get you anything else? You have the coffee. Tea? Pastry? Me?” He stared down at me.

  Unsettled.

  He unsettled me. His blond hair was darker than mine, but also pulled back into a ponytail. Rich, chocolate brown eyes. Taller than me, but similar lanky build.

  Maggie giggled, her focus bouncing to Warren’s sexy smirk and back to my stunned expression. “I think if you keep it up, Quinn’s going to need a cold shower.”

  “Margaret!”

  “What?” She had the nerve to bat her eyelashes at me. “I’m merely pointing out you look a little overheated.”

  The bell above the door jingled, calling Warren back to duty at the counter.

  I fanned my face. “It is warm in here, isn’t it?”

  “No. It’s really not.” She sipped from her bowl. “Since when do you take your coffee black?”

  I stared at the dark liquid. “I got a little flustered back there.”

  “I’d say. Your cheeks are pink like a little school girl.”

  I tried to drink the bitter liquid and almost spat it out. “This is terrible.”

  “Get some milk and sugar added to it.”

  “I can’t go back up there and ask him.”

  Maggie leaned over to peer around me. “I think he’d be more than happy to give you some sugar.”

  “You think he was flirting with me?”

  She snickered and tried to hide it behind her coffee. “Flirting? No. Definitely not run of the mill flirting. He had you stripped and naked in his mind.”

  “He did not!” I accidentally hit my hand on the table, causing my coffee to tip and spill.

  “Oh, he did. He’s coming back over here. Pull yourself together.”

  “Looks like you got a little excited.” Warren appeared next to our table with a white bar towel. “Let me clean you up.”

  “Warren?” Maggie focused all her attention on him. “What brings you to be working in this fine establishment?”

  “I studied glass blowing at Pilchuck but started working in a studio down here.”

  My jaw dropped. “With Chihuly? The glass genius?”

  Warren grinned. “The one-eyed pirate of the glass world himself.”

  “You’re a blower?” Maggie’s eye twitched. It might have been an attempt at a wink. I would have to remind her to never do it again in public.

  “I prefer glass artist, but I can blow with the best of them.”

  I groaned. This was too much.

  Warren looked concerned.

  Maggie poked me under the ta
ble with her foot, waggling her eyebrows like some silent movie actor. A really bad one.

  “Don’t like your coffee?” He pointed at my completely full cup.

  “He likes his sweet and full of cream,” Maggie murmured.

  “Let me add some cream for you.” He whisked away my cup.

  I returned Maggie’s poke with a kick to her shin. Not hard enough to bruise, but enough she got my point. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m playing you if the situation were reversed.”

  “Huh?”

  “He’s very cute. He’s a glassblower, which means he’s artistic. Like you.”

  “Not all artists are gay, Magpie.”

  “True. But he’s also flirting with you. Why would he be flirting if he were straight?”

  I didn’t have an answer to her question. It had been too long since I’d personally engaged in flirting as a means to an end. I went through my days flirting with everyone as a default.

  This was different.

  This flirting had a not so subtle undercurrent of sexual chemistry.

  Undercurrent didn’t cover it.

  Tsunami of sexual chemistry.

  Synapses fired in my brain I swore had gone dormant.

  Things zinged.

  Warren returned with a fresh cup of caramel-colored coffee. I took a sip and the sweetness erased the horrible taste from the unadulterated muck I’d first sipped.

  “Better?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Great. Ten minutes.” He tossed his towel over his shoulder and returned to his post.

  “What’s ten minutes?” she asked me.

  “His break.”

  “Oooh, are you going to go make out behind the dumpster?” Delight shone in her meddling expression.

  “Classy, Magpie. Very classy.”

  “It’s kind of hot.”

  “I’m not that kind of boy.”

  “Maybe not, but maybe he is.” She drank from her cup, then smiled at me with a foamy mustache.

  “Real Love” ~ Mary J. Blige

  WARREN AND I did not make out behind the dumpster during his break.

  I wasn’t kidding when I told Maggie I wasn’t that kind of boy.

  We did, however, sit outside on a bench and talk. Then he gave me his number and I gave him mine.

  How old fashioned.

  “Who’s Warren?” Selah asked, holding out a message scrawled on a Hello Kitty pad of paper.

  I reached for the note and she held it behind her back.

  “Not until you tell me who he is.”

  “He’s a guy.”

  “A guy who called here for you. He sounded eager. And cute.”

  “How do you sound cute on the phone?”

  “He admitted he didn’t know your last name. Fumbled over it, actually. Then told me he wasn’t a random creep.” Her expression softened and I could see her romantic side come out. “Someone you picked up in San Francisco?”

  “No, he’s local.”

  Her eyebrows rose toward her bangs. “It’s about time.”

  “I’m not a virgin-hermit.”

  She handed me the note. “No, but Olympia isn’t exactly a cornucopia of cute gay boys. Present company the exception, of course.”

  “Of course.” I read Warren’s message and smiled.

  “He is cute.” Selah grinned. “I can tell by your face.”

  “He’s not bad. Now excuse me, I need to make a phone call.” In the kitchen I punched his number into the phone on the wall, then pulled the long cord with me into the pantry closet.

  I literally was in the closet calling a cute guy.

  The irony wasn’t lost on me.

  He picked up on the third ring.

  I would’ve hung up after the fourth.

  We made plans to meet at the diner for dinner.

  I wondered if we’d order one milkshake and two straws.

  Probably not.

  At the diner, we sat in a booth near the windows.

  Warren wore jeans and a long sleeve rainbow tie-dyed T-shirt. Out of his ponytail, his hair barely brushed his shoulders. His foot bumped against mine a couple of times while we studied our menus.

  He ordered pancakes for dinner. How rebellious.

  I had a burger and fries. And a chocolate milkshake—with one straw.

  After the waitress left us, an awkward silence fell over the table. I tried to think of something to say not completely cliché and trite.

  “You’re an art major?” he asked.

  “I am.”

  “What kind?”

  “3D.”

  So far, I came across as interesting as the bowl of mini non-dairy creamers sitting on the table—bland, boring, and completely artificial.

  The waitress returned with our orders. At least we’d have something to do with our hands and mouths now.

  “What about you?” I asked.

  “Studio art undergrad at RISD, now glass blowing.”

  “Are you afraid of getting burned?”

  “Getting burned is part of the process. You learn the hard way immediately when you work with hot stuff, burns are inevitable.”

  “The same could be said about my dating life.”

  “Mine too.” His laughter rumbled in his chest and I could feel it echo in my own.

  “Could you teach me to blow glass?”

  “You want access to my glory hole?” He sucked syrup off his fork

  I choked on my milkshake.

  “You okay?” His deep laugh filled the space while I sputtered and tried not to die on a mouthful of dairy.

  I nodded, trying to replace chocolate milk with air.

  “I’m not being rude. That’s what it’s called. For real. We have three furnaces and the middle one is the glory hole.”

  Finally able to breathe again, I looked around, wondering who else heard him say glory hole repeatedly. Two young guys with long hair and funky clothes were already out of the norm for this town. I didn’t want to end up getting thrown out and called faggots.

  “No one heard me.”

  “What?”

  “No one is paying attention to us. You looked worried we’re going to be jumped as soon as we walk out the door.”

  I rolled my shoulders back and pushed the sleeves of my black shirt up to my elbows. “I wasn’t worried.”

  He toyed with the piercing in his eyebrow. I hadn’t noticed it before. “Two men talking about glory holes might not be typical, even for here.”

  “Can you stop saying glory hole?” I stabbed a fry into the tartar sauce I’d ordered on the side.

  He chuckled. “Only if you agree to come to the studio and let me show you mine.”

  I swore my cheeks heated. “Okay. Deal.”

  “Let’s talk about things that can’t possibly be turned into embarrassing sexual innuendo.” Spearing one of the sausage links on his plate, he slowly lifted it to his lips.

  I paused with my burger an inch from my mouth to watch him. He never broke eye contact as he bit down on the tip.

  I closed my eyes. “You don’t play fair.”

  When I reopened them, his warm brown eyes stared into mine.

  “Who wants to play fair? You’re too easy to fluster.”

  I took a bite of my burger. Flirting was second nature to me. I did it with everyone—men, women, dogs, cats, and sometimes inanimate objects. My default mode of communication equaled flirting.

  I had nothing on Warren. He was a master.

  What was the word I’d used when we met?

  Unsettled.

  I couldn’t tell if this were his natural mode or if he really liked me.

  I loved attention, but he was different. He fed off of walking on a thin edge of flirting and sexual harassment. He balanced between charm and spectacle, the kind to attract the wrong kind of people. We weren’t in San Francisco or New York. Locals here were less forgiving about openly in your face gays.

  I wanted not to care about fitting in. Most of my lif
e I played the clown to get people to like me.

  Warren acted like he assumed people liked him.

  I liked him.

  I finished my burger and listened to him talk about how he got into glassblowing.

  Unlike Warren, I did care if people liked me.

  I wanted him to like me.

  “Let’s get out of here.” He threw his napkin on his plate and made the international sign for the check.

  Outside he lit up a cigarette, cupping the flame of the lighter against the breeze. He offered me the lit cigarette and I took it. Inhaling the warm smoke, I squinted against the burn.

  “Now what?” I exhaled and made smoke rings.

  “Let’s have some fun. I’ll drive.”

  He led me across the gravel away from the lights of the diner to his small pickup truck

  When he pulled out his keys and opened my door, I decided to be bold.

  “Whatta Man” ~ Salt-N-Pepa

  I SURPRISED HIM when I grabbed his hips and spun him around to face me.

  He blinked at me for a few seconds before he clued into my intentions. He dropped his cigarette to the ground, then took mine and crushed both under his boot.

  I lunged toward him, thinking I’d go straight for the kiss.

  Instead he held me back by placing his hands on my shoulders. Now I stared at him. Was he rejecting me?

  Before I could process why he held me back, he yanked me closer by the front of my leather jacket until our bodies almost touched. One hand released its grip and moved over my chest. I wondered if he could feel my heart racing under my T-shirt.

  His lips brushed against the scruff on my cheek, followed by the drag of his teeth along my jaw.

  I focused on breathing and steadying my flying pulse. My own hands rested on the semi-neutral territory of his jean-covered hips.

  He teased me. Close enough I could feel heat flowing off of him, but he hadn’t kissed me yet.

  I lifted my hand to his smooth jaw and stilled his movements. I felt his cheeks lift in a smile against my fingers.

  “Quit teasing,” I whispered.

  “Do something about it.”

  I did.

  My mouth crashed into his.