Chapter Eight
The ride to the hotel passed in a sort of daze. Before I knew it, I was on my back on the bed, staring at the textured ceiling and trying to figure out how the memory of an all-things-considered decent hookup had been so thoroughly overshadowed.
I still couldn’t decode the expression in Flynn’s eyes, as he watched William and I bask, however briefly, in the afterglow. Still couldn’t quite understand how someone might want to see their partner get a big, messy facial, while they sat practically immobile on the other side of the room.
And I couldn’t understand why just the thought of it all - fucked up, and confusing, and surprising as it’d been - left me so damn hard. My cock practically begging for attention, straining in my underwear despite having only cum less than an hour before.
Pushing my fingers under the tight waistband, so that I could swirl them around the leaking tip, felt somehow even more illicit than sex with William had been.
There was no way for me to say I hadn’t found him attractive.
His upfront flirtation, an almost brash invitation for things to get physical.
And then the sight of my hands wrapped around that narrow waist, holding him in place as William allowed - no, encouraged - me to fuck him as aggressively as I wanted to.
You couldn’t really ask for much more, from a one-time encounter.
So why, then, was I picturing Flynn’s face being the one turned back to me?
Smirking over his shoulder, as my crotch slapped against his ass.
The fantasy impossible - having my childhood friend underneath me yet also across the room, watching - only my cock didn’t seem to care.
Throbbing even harder, now, against my groping fingers.
I’d not thought about him for years, or at least, I’d tried not to.
Only in as much as a frustrating reminder of my own trapped existence: him a galling example, eagerly proclaimed by his parents, of what success looked like.
Never exactly coming out and saying that my own, meager achievements were dreary in comparison, but it didn’t take a genius to fill in those blanks.
And I hated him for it, hated him more than his annoying mom and her snide asides about Flynn’s latest promotion or shiniest purchase.
Hated the knowledge that I was considering him, measuring myself against him, when he’d moved on and forgotten me, and our frustrating town, and the small life so many of the rest of us were meant to be satisfied with.
Suddenly, it was me in the chair, mute and observant.
Watching Flynn kneeling behind his boyfriend, his strong hands pinning William in place.
Flynn’s grin flashing my way, as he shifted his legs so that I could see it all so much clearer.
Their whimpers more intimate, more meaningful, from their familiarity: making a mockery of my anonymity, the summoned third who could only ever take third place.
I could imagine the leather gag across my lips - my hand a poor substitute as I pumped my hips on the cheap hotel bedspread, fingers tight against my mouth - the biting shame of knowing Flynn and William’s sex was better than anything I could offer, here.
Left all the more cutting by how hard I was, how hard I could imagine being.
The waistband of my jeans tight against my wrist, as I stroked myself urgently.
I groaned, against my fingers, as the cling of my boxer-briefs instantly shifted, wet and unpleasant.
Horniness fleeing, too; a rush of fresh embarrassment flooding in to take its place.
Knowing, deep down, that Flynn and William likely hadn’t spared me a single thought since I’d walked out of their apartment.
Had presumably moved on, to whatever was the next step in their orchestrated play.
I panted, feeling the wetness slowly, shamefully spread across my crotch, and promised myself I’d never look at his damn face again.
#
At first glance, I figured it was spam.
After all, your mobile wallet app isn’t meant to send you a “Can we meet?” message. Blinking my bleary, sleep-crusted eyes, I almost simply swiped it off the lock screen. Tapped instead, curiosity overriding caution at the last moment.
It wasn’t a message, but a comment, on the most recent payment in the app. The fifty bucks that Flynn had transferred to me in the bar, for gas money; an amount which I’d thought showy and excessive at the time, and thus perfectly in keeping with his arrogant, success-on-his-sleeve personality.
I hadn’t sent it back, though. Fifty bucks was fifty bucks.
“Flynn?”
He’d sent it early, according to the timestamp. Close to 5am, in fact; the clock in the corner of the screen said it was just gone eight, now.
I stretched under the still tightly-tucked sheets. Trying to ease them out from the edge of the mattress; wondering, idly, why it seemed like a point of hotel pride to cinch them in as restrictively as possible.
“I didn’t have your number.”
Staring at his reply, I willed my sluggish brain to process faster.
Gave up a moment later, to push back the sheets and stumble to the coffee machine on the scuffed wooden cabinet under the wall-mounted TV.
The pouch of grinds inside the “Sealed For Best Flavor” packet smelled like the back of a kitchen cupboard, stale and dry.
Beggars, I reminded myself, could not be choosers. I clicked the machine on, its little amber light flickering slightly as the heating element began to crackle.
Sitting down on the edge of the bed, I re-read his messages.
My brain automatically reaching for the worst-case scenario, the most uncomfortable.
Flynn furious that I’d not spoken up last night, called an end to the whole encounter when I’d realized he was sitting in the corner.
Disgusted by my willingness to still go through with it, to hook up with some stranger who’d propositioned me on an app.
They were ridiculous, far-fetched fears, I knew that even as I summoned them like looming bogeymen.
Not like there was anything stopping Flynn from protesting, when he’d seen me walk into their bedroom.
Not like he’d been unaware that his boyfriend was hunting down eager participants for a one-night stand.
Somehow, dismissing the obvious horrors only made me feel worse.
“I don’t know if meeting is a good idea,” I tapped out; hit reply.
The little padlock symbol in the corner said that our comments on the payment were private, for our eyes only, and yet it still felt weirdly risky to be documenting them like this.
I just wasn’t sure I was ready to give Flynn my actual number.
He, apparently, was further down that line of thought than I was. I stared at the string of digits, annoyed as much as curious.
“Why?” I texted him.
“Easier than in that app,” Flynn replied.
I rolled my eyes at the screen. “No, why do you want to meet?”
It took a while for his answer to pop up. Longer, certainly, than the three words which finally arrived would warrant.
“We should talk.”
I could keep protesting, holding him at arm’s length without quite telling him to go fuck himself. Or, I could yank out the splinter in one, quick go.
“Not at your apartment,” I said.
He sent the maps link for a cafe, and I stared at it until the screen went dim, and then completely black.
#
The coffee the machine had spat out had been acrid, and somehow both unpleasantly strong while also not quite strong enough, but I still made myself drink half a mug before setting out.
Wanting - no, needing - the caffeine, hoping it would slice through the unease that’d settled across my brain like a cloying fog.
That feeling had only built in the shower, as I scrubbed the dried cum off my crotch, and then further as I’d pulled clean clothes out of my duffle. Annoyed at myself, too, for first wondering what outfit I should wear, and then realizing I was doing that because it would be Flynn I was seeing.
It was less than a five minute walk from the hotel, but he was already standing outside when I got there. Looking frustratingly slick in a dark blue sweater - the neck cut low enough to expose his collarbones - and gray pants.
I grit my teeth, telling myself that he warranted nothing more than my blue jeans and scruffy hoodie. It’d been red, before its many trips through the laundry. Now, the color was as softened as the cotton it was made from.
Flynn looked up, expectantly.
“I need coffee,” I said, not pausing as I pushed at the door.
He trailed in my wake, mercifully silent. A half-step behind me as I joined the short line for the counter; only speaking when we reached the front and, after giving my order, I flashed him an impatient glance.
“Just an Americano, please.”
I paid for both, before he had a chance to.
We picked chairs as distant from everyone else as possible, by unspoken accord.
Not that the place was busy; most people seemed to be taking their drinks to-go.
I sipped my cup of black filter, wishing I’d thought to grab some sugar.
Still, it was leagues ahead of the slop from the hotel room’s machine.
“I didn’t expect to see you,” Flynn said, after we’d sat in silence for a couple of minutes.
“You suggested the cafe,” I pointed out, eyebrow raised.
He made a face, one that said he knew I was being intentionally obtuse, but he didn’t feel like he could call me out on it. “Last night, I meant.”
I nodded, slowly.
“I didn’t know you...” Flynn’s voice trailed off.
“Had sex with perfect strangers?” I could hear the annoyed edge to my voice; forced myself to chew back my frustration. Losing my temper wouldn’t help anything. “I guess we both learned something about the other, then.”
He frowned, staring down at his cup. “That’s...”
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” I interrupted. “Or make excuses for what you’re into.”
The glare was sharp, as though Flynn had soaked up all the ire I’d just swallowed down myself. “I wasn’t going to make excuses for it.”