Matt turned to look at him and stopped cold. He was pretty sure his mouth dropped open. Trevor’s long hair was hanging to his shoulders. He was wearing a tight-gray tank top and ripped black jeans. But what really got Matt was the thick black eyeliner, making his eyes fucking pop, and just a touch of glitter on his eyelids. Shit. Shit, he was hot.
“Too much?” Trevor asked, shoving his hands into his back pockets.
Matt shook his head. No, Trevor was beautiful. Not in a femme way, but a masculine way. He’d heard about the eyeliner, but he sure as fuck hadn’t seen it yet. They’d tried to keep a low profile at Bodine after the holidays. They were already the biggest news on campus, so they’d tended to spend their weekends hanging out at the dorms. In fact, the only reason life hadn’t been hell on them after their public outing was because no one wanted to piss off Matt’s offensive linemen. Or defensive linemen for that matter. The one time a few guys had gone after Trevor, the footballers had kicked some serious ass . . . and no one had dared again. Still, Trevor had never risked wearing makeup.
And they sure as hell had never gone clubbing.
Trevor gave a small smile and stepped up to Matt, reaching down to cup Matt’s package. Yeah, Matt was hard just from fucking eyeliner.
“I guess you like it.” Trevor squeezed him through his jeans.
“You’re gorgeous,” Matt said. “They’re all gonna want to fuck you. I might get jealous.”
Trevor shook his head. “You really have no idea how hot you are. And when I do this on the dance floor—” Trevor ripped open the snaps of Matt’s shirt, exposing his hard pecs and abs “—they’ll know you’re mine.”
Trevor leaned down and licked from Matt’s belly button up to his nipples. Matt grabbed his forearms and yanked him up. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“We can be late,” Trevor countered.
“No,” Matt said. “I’m not keeping my new friends waiting in front of the club. So pour us shots and let’s go.”
“Okay.” Trevor shrugged. “We can always fuck in the bathroom.”
Matt shook his head. Trevor was definitely adapting to the out-and-proud life of San Francisco. “We’re not going to start having threesomes and doing lines of coke, are we?” Matt asked, only half-joking.
Trevor looked up from the shots he was pouring. “Babe, it’s just eyeliner. I’m still a good ol’ boy from Texas,” he said in an exaggerated drawl. “I like to have a little fun, then go home with my man.”
Matt took his shot from Trevor’s hand. “That is the Texas motto.”
They clinked glasses and downed their shots. “Actually, the Texas motto is, ‘If you land a hot blonde model, don’t let them go,’” Trevor said with a wink. Then he waved around the glossy photograph Matt had been sent by the underwear company. Yeah, he’d taken the gig. And Trevor had immediately put the photograph up on the fridge with a magnet.
“I can’t believe I agreed to it.” Matt groaned. He was in a bright-orange jockstrap for god’s sake. How much gayer could he get? Although it was tasteful. Pretty much like any other underwear ad out there, except they’d taken shots of him playing football in it. Which had actually come out pretty awesome. Not to mention the jockstrap did its job.
Besides, Matt could use the money while he looked for a permanent job. And they’d agreed to spend some of it traveling at the end of the summer.
“Yes, your life is so hard,” Trevor said sarcastically. “How will you ever survive?”
“Use my hot sex slave to console me?” Matt asked.
Trevor wiggled his ass as he headed toward the front door. “Got it. Handcuffs later.”
Matt groaned—his boyfriend was going to kill him. He took a deep breath, adjusted his hard-on, and followed Trevor outside. Then he reached out and grabbed his hand, linking their fingers together. And they headed down the street toward the noise of the Castro clubs. Because they could do that here. Be two guys holding hands as they walked down the street. He wasn’t Matt Lancaster, Bodine’s quarterback, anymore. And Trevor wasn’t the punk Asian at a Southern Baptist college.
They were just two guys in love. And the people around them couldn’t care less. It was perfect.
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Thank you to everyone at Riptide Publishing who has made this book into a reality (and had unending patience with my new-mom carpal tunnel).
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Mackenzie Blair is an award-winning screenwriter in Los Angeles who’s written for shows and films you’ve probably heard of. Mackenzie grew up in the South but fled the humidity for earthquakes, university, and a brief stint in finance. As a cynical idealist, she prefers to write happy endings whenever possible.
You can reach her at [email protected].
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