LUKA (The Rhythm Series, Book 2)

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  “It . . . you were . . . uh, it was good,” he stammered.

  “Just good?”

  “Actually, it was fucking amazing,” he grinned. “At least I thought so. And as you don’t remember, I suppose you’ll have to take my word for it.”

  And he laughed.

  “Yeah, I guess I will,” I said, leaning toward him and resting my hand on his thigh. “Or you could show me what I’ve been missing.”

  His eyes dilated, and I saw lust and desire on his face.

  “God, I’d love to say yes,” he murmured, rubbing his hand over mine, licking his lips again as his gazed dropped to my hardening dick.

  “Then say yes,” I suggested, taking his mouth in a bruising kiss.

  He wasn’t the usual kind of guy I went for. He was tall, but on the skinny side, and nerdy rather than cool. But he was sweet and funny. And he’d made me breakfast.

  His mouth tasted of coffee, and as I pulled him closer, I caught the scent of expensive cologne. He’d shaved and I could feel only a faint scratch of stubble under my fingertips where he’d missed a spot.

  I let my hands travel over his body, enjoying the hard planes and angles, so different from being with a woman. Flashes of memory from last night came back to me.

  Suddenly, Seth pulled away, his lips swollen and his neatly-combed hair mussed from my hands.

  “I’ll probably regret this for the rest of my life,” he whispered, “but I have somewhere else to be and I can’t cancel.”

  Disappointed, I straightened up and shrugged.

  “No problem.”

  He sighed with frustration. “I really, really want to stay,” he said. “But I promised my mother I’d go to church with her.”

  I stared at him.

  “It’s a thing we do when I’m in London. Look, can I see you tonight, Luka? Buy you dinner? Please?”

  “Like . . . a date?”

  He smiled. “Yes, let’s go on a date. Dinner, drinks, dancing, whatever you want.”

  “Dancing?”

  He didn’t look like a dancer.

  “Oh, I’ve got some moves! My sister made sure I had the basics,” and he smiled again.

  “Sure, okay. I’ve got nothing else planned.”

  He shot me a hurt look.

  “I don’t mean it like that.”

  “Okay. So . . . can I have your number?”

  We swapped numbers and agreed to meet at the Ivy at 8PM. Either the guy was seriously loaded or he was seriously trying to impress me. Probably both. I knew that you had to reserve a table weeks ahead and expect to spend a hundred pounds per person without wine. My eyes scanned Seth’s apartment: he could afford it.

  “Do they have rabbit on the menu?” I asked innocently.

  Seth scowled.

  “If they do, you’d better not order it!”

  I winked at him, and a reluctant smile appeared.

  After we finished breakfast, Seth called a cab for me.

  He’d put in contact lenses, which explained why I couldn’t remember him wearing glasses, although I thought they were kind of sexy.

  And more of last night was coming back to me. I had an impression of dancing with a group of people and seeing him watching me from the corner. But I couldn’t remember how I’d gone from that to going home with him. It didn’t matter, but I hoped he’d fill me in later.

  I wondered briefly what had happened to the woman who jumped in the pool. I’d smelled chlorine on my skin.

  Seth changed into a suit and tie before we left. It made him look broader in the shoulders, but he was still on the skinny side. Not quite a racehorse, but still, an equine nine.

  As we stood in the lobby of his apartment building, he looked as though he wanted to kiss me again, if the way he stared at my lips was anything to go by. I grinned at him, then ran my tongue across my teeth and watched his cheeks go pink.

  “You’re so bad,” he muttered. “I’m taking my mother to church and I have all these very un-churchlike thoughts in my mind.”

  My cab arrived, interrupting whatever I might have said. Or done. Probably just as well.

  “See ya,” I said, jumping into the cab.

  He held the door, stopping me from closing it.

  “Will I? See you later?”

  I nodded. “I’ll be there.”

  He grinned and slammed the door shut.

  “Where to, mate?” asked the driver.

  I gave him Sarah’s address, and sat back in the seat, my eyes closing.

  I’d sleep for a couple of hours then I’d better go do grocery shopping.

  My phone rang, waking me from a deep sleep.

  “Zdravo?”

  There was a pause. “Luka?”

  “Yes, who is this?” I asked, reverting to English now I was more awake.

  “It’s Seth.”

  Seth—the hook-up guy. He had nice eyes.

  “Yeah, hi. What’s up?”

  “Did I wake you?”

  “Yeah, I just laid down for a couple of hours. What time is it?”

  “Nearly five.”

  “Sranje!”

  “I’m guessing that’s bad,” he said, humor coloring his voice.

  “Sorry. I had a ton of stuff I wanted to do.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Oh, well, that’s okay. Another time then.”

  I smiled at the disappointment I heard in his tone.

  “I’m not canceling—I’m just saying that I was supposed to go grocery shopping, check my emails, do stuff. Not sleep all day. I’m still up for tonight though.”

  I glanced down at my dick as I kicked the sheets off. I was definitely up. And I was looking forward to our date.

  A thought occurred to my sleep-heavy brain.

  “Seth, why are you calling me?”

  “Oh, right! Um, I just thought I should say that the Ivy has a dress code. Just in case you didn’t know.”

  “Which is?”

  “Smart casual. Um, no shorts. And if you wear a short-sleeved shirt, you’ll need a jacket. But I can bring a jacket if you don’t have one. Or you could wear a long-sleeved shirt. You don’t even need to wear a tie.”

  His babbling was cute. Irritating, but cute.

  “Huh, I was going to wear cut-off jeans, flip-flops, and a muscle shirt.”

  I heard his sharp intake of breath.

  “You’re teasing me, aren’t you?”

  He was laughing, but I heard the quiver of uncertainty.

  “I’ll see you at eight.”

  “Oh, okay. Eight o’clock. Bye, Luka.”

  “Ciao.”

  I strolled into the bathroom, eyeing Sarah’s shower. Yesterday, it had seemed small, but now it seemed almost claustrophobic . . . compared to Seth’s.

  God, I was an ungrateful bastard. Sarah’s shower was free and it woke me up.

  I needed clothes.

  When I’d pulled on my jeans and a clean t-shirt, I headed out to the supermarket at the end of the road, one of those places that’s larger than a convenience store, but smaller than an out-of-town mall.

  Sarah’s apartment was just off a busy street near Camden Town Tube. It was way more bohemian than where Seth lived, a melting pot of voices and accents, skin colors and styles. Before I’d gone twenty feet, I heard a dozen different languages and could have bought anything from the latest cell phone to tie-dyed clothes that were right out of the seventies, and I was pretty certain that a guy standing outside a kebab shop was selling weed.

  But the vibe was laidback and friendly, and I could see why Sarah wanted to live here.

  By the time I got back to the apartment, loaded with four bags of groceries, it was already seven. I hurried to put everything away, then pulled on a pair of newish jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. That was as good as it was going to get.

  I was looking forward to seeing Seth. He was definitely not my usual type, but he made me laugh.

  I was late. Cursing under my breath, I jogged to the Tube, irrita
ted that the sultry air of an unusually warm late Spring day would leave me a sweaty mess. But then again, a crowded Underground train had the same effect.

  After I’d hopped a Tube to Leicester Square and walked up Charing Cross Road, I was even later and could feel sweat trickling down my spine. I hated being late and that put me in a bad mood.

  It shouldn’t have mattered, it was only a date, but it had been drilled into me from the age of seven that a professional showed up on time, did his job, didn’t complain, and danced his heart out. Being late wasn’t acceptable.

  So I wasn’t in the best frame of mind for something so upscale when I arrived at the Ivy.

  Seth was sitting at the bar, checking his wristwatch, an untouched glass of wine in front of him. He broke into a huge smile when he saw me that almost made it worth the aggravation of traveling across London in a heatwave.

  “I thought I was being stood up,” he said, standing and shoving his hands in his pockets.

  I got the impression that he was going to hug me, but changed his mind because we were out in public.

  I leaned across and kissed his cheek, amused to see the immediate flush.

  “You thought I wouldn’t show up?” I asked, taking the stool next to him.

  “I know I’m supposed to act all cool,” he said, frowning, “but I’m not like that. And I don’t like people who enjoy playing mind games, you know?”

  I cocked my head to one side studying him. His expression was serious, and I guessed that someone had done a number on him in the past.

  “If I like someone,” he went on, “I tell them, and I bloody well show them how I feel.” He paused. “Not like I’m a scary stalker or anything.”

  “Good to know,” I deadpanned.

  He chewed his lip for a moment, then waved at the bar. “What would you like?”

  “Honestly?”

  “Well, yes,” he said uncertainly.

  “Can we go somewhere more relaxed?”

  I glanced around at the other people eating there. We were the only ones under 30.

  “Too stuffy?” he frowned.

  I leaned closer.

  “Look, I appreciate the whole trying-to-impress me thing, and sometimes I love this kind of place . . .”

  “ . . . but not tonight?”

  I shook my head.

  He gave a small grin. “You’re right. I am trying to impress you. Is it working?”

  He was cute. We’d already fucked, but he was acting like we hadn’t even kissed. I wasn’t sure how to take it, but I knew I liked him. Maybe Seth could be a fun way to spend the summer.

  “Can I give you a hint?” I asked, picking up his wineglass and taking a long drink.

  “I suppose so, yes.”

  I leaned across and whispered in his ear. “You don’t have to try so hard.”

  As I pulled away, his eyes were closed. But then they opened and his gray-blue irises were eclipsed with lust.

  He blinked a couple of times, then stood up and tucked a ten-pound note under the wineglass.

  “I know a little Italian place around the corner. It’s bench seats and Formica tables, but the food is great. How does that sound?”

  “Perfect. I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

  “Really? Why not?”

  I shrugged. “Kind of slept through lunch. I’m staying at a friend’s place and there wasn’t any food in the apartment. I had to shop before I could eat. But then this guy called to remind me we were having dinner.”

  He flashed me his quick smile. “A guy called you? Was he hot? Could be your lucky night.”

  “It already is.”

  We strolled up Charing Cross Road talking about the usual first date stuff: music we liked, where I was from. He’d even been to Slovenia, telling me about a bachelor party he’d gone on in Ljubljana, although he called it a ‘stag night’.

  “I loved the city, but it was a bloody awful weekend. All Harry’s friends were straight. They knew I wasn’t, but it was obviously uncomfortable for them. God, the strippers were the worst! Ugly old trouts with waxed pussies like badly made Barbie dolls—hideous!”

  I smiled at the image.

  “Wouldn’t bother me.”

  “Well, it didn’t bother me, but it’s not exactly my cup of tea either.”

  “You . . . drank tea?” I asked, puzzled.

  Seth laughed. “Sorry! That’s very British. But your English is so good . . . it means, not my scene.”

  “Oh, okay. I like strippers if they’re good—women or men. I have sex with both.”

  “You’ve had sex with strippers?”

  “Yeah, but . . .”

  “Really?”

  “Sure,” and I turned to watch his face. “Both: men and women.”

  His eyebrows shot up and his mouth popped open.

  “You . . . I . . . really?”

  “Is that a deal breaker? You said you didn’t want to play games.”

  “You’re really bi?”

  “Yeah, I’m really bi.”

  “You have sex with women?” he asked, his mouth twisting with dislike.

  “Yeah.”

  “Often?”

  “Jesus! Yes, often. And with men, often.”

  “When was the last time you . . . with a woman?”

  “The night before I met you.”

  “Wow.” Seth shook his head slowly. “I don’t know what to say.”

  My shoulders tensed.

  You’d be amazed how intolerant gay men can be—really prejudiced. They don’t like lesbians and they hate bi’s. Like me. Some of them get totally disgusted at the thought of pussy. What the fuck is so scary? They all came out of a vagina. Except my friend, Erik, who always swears that he was born by C-section and has never been near a pussy in his life.

  They think that I’m in the closet in some way, denying what I am. But it’s not like that. I meet someone, and there’s a connection or there isn’t. It doesn’t matter if they’re male or female, gay or straight. It’s a connection.

  My friend Ash is one of the hottest guys I’ve ever met, but he’s straight, and I respect that. But there’s still a connection—one that won’t ever be sexual. I’m fine with that.

  Straight women think being bi is just a kink, and when I meet the right woman—i.e. them—then I’ll fall into some sort of pussy worship. Sorry, ladies, that’s not the way it works.

  I’ve never met anyone that I’d want to spend the rest of my life with. I can’t see it happening.

  And the other thing is, a woman says she’s fine with me being bi, but if she sees me hitting on a guy, it becomes a personal attack on her—her femininity or desirability.

  So being bi is complicated. And I’m still looking for that special connection, someone who accepts me for who I am . . . for what I am.

  I don’t keep count of the people I’ve slept with, but it’s probably 60% men / 40% women. My first sexual experience was when I was 14 with a guy at school who used to like to suck me off. For nearly a year, I thought I was gay, and that scared the hell out of me. But the first time I had full sex was with a girl. I was so happy that I wasn’t gay, and I put the locker room blowjobs out of my mind. We dated for nearly a year before she left Koper to go to university in Ljubljana. By then, I was starting to figure out that I was equally attracted to men and women, but it was another year before I had sex with a man. To say my teenage years were confusing would be a massive understatement.

  My sexuality is . . . fluid.

  Dancing was the one thing that kept me sane, a way of channeling all of that frustration and negative emotion.

  Seth was staring at me, a confused expression of dislike on his face.

  Disappointed, I turned around and started walking back to the Tube station. I’d find somewhere cheap to eat and . . .

  “Luka, wait! Please,” he said, hurrying after me. “I’m sorry. I was just . . . surprised, that’s all. I’ve never been out with anyone who’s bi.”

&n
bsp; I folded my arms across my chest, watching his eyes track across my body as I waited for him to speak.

  “I don’t have to watch, right?”

  I let out the breath I’d been holding and laughed. “Nope. I don’t do voyeurism.”

  “Oh, thank God for that,” he muttered.

  “Are we still having dinner?”

  “Yes,” he said emphatically. “We’re still having dinner.”

  THE ITALIAN DINER was just as he’d described. We were given a tiny booth in the basement, down a narrow staircase with dim lighting, but the food was incredible, even if the house wine was rough.

  Seth drank most of the bottle. I’d been drunk the last two nights and didn’t want a repeat performance. Two lots of drunken sex that I could hardly remember was enough for any man.

  “You weren’t joking about the bi thing by any chance, were you?” he asked after his fourth glass, while I sipped an espresso.

  “No.”

  He rubbed his hands over his face.

  “So I have to be jealous of everyone?”

  I smiled. “Only if they’re over 18 and under 80.”

  He cringed. “Don’t! That includes my mother and my sister. Oh God! And the vicar!”

  He rested his head on the table.

  “Yeah,” I said teasingly, “but I’m here with you.”

  “Are you?” he asked sharply, looking up. “Because I’m having a hard time getting my head around why a guy like you would go on a date with me?”

  “A guy like me?”

  “God! You must know, Luka! You’re just so fucking hot!” he said, more loudly than was necessary.

  The woman at the next table giggled, although her boyfriend didn’t.

  Seth leaned across the table and caught my hand.

  “Will you come with me to the club I go to so I can show you off? Otherwise no one will believe I could score a guy like you.”

  I pulled my hand free and scowled at him.

  “I’m not a fucking trophy.”

  His eyes widened and he flinched.

  “I’m sorry, I know you’re not. That was crass. I didn’t mean it like that. We can do whatever you want.”

  We sat in silence while I considered getting up and walking out. He’d touched a nerve, although he didn’t know it. When I was 22, I’d dated Astrid. She was older than me, and I’d thought it was love, but it turned out she just liked having a good-looking younger guy on her arm. She certainly hadn’t cared about my fucking feelings.