Chapter 2
Two
Zachary
Asher
He looks as good as I remember. Taller than me, in good shape, and with dark eyes and a set of complimenting features that make him look like James Bond or something.
Not that I’m hot for James Bond, well, maybe I am (Theo had made Amata and me watch like four of them back-to-back one night), but I could one hundred percent see him in a suit and a black tie with a watch that doubles as a receiver.
He looks startled to see me, like he’d truly expected anyone else to be on the other side of that door.
Maybe he thought I’d been lying last time, but the truth was, I did come here every Sunday.
I’d come last Saturday, too, just in case.
Today, I wasn’t going to come. I have so much shit in the back of the car from the antique place that I didn’t feel safe leaving it in there in the lot, but something, something, told me today was the fucking day.
God. Jeremiah would have said God had told me.
God had whispered in my ear that today was the day, and all I did was listen.
But I don’t much believe in that shit these days, so I figure it was just luck.
These days, I believe far more in myself and my art, and I guess my asshole: all of which have served me far better than God ever has.
“Uh, eh, hello there,” James Bond says in that hot-as-fuck accent.
“Hey. Hope you were just coming outside to check the weather real quick and not, like, leaving?”
“I was…” he trails off. It’s weird, this guy screams money and intelligence and maybe even like the British royal family or something, but has a real hard time stringing a couple words together whenever I ask him a direct question. “...I was actually leaving.”
I nod, turning my mouth down into a pout. “Oh, right. Shame.” There’s a couple trying to get in, and since we’re blocking the doorway, he slips outside to let them past. I move to where he is.
“Apologies,” he says to them, smiling. He has a nice smile. Gentle and sincere. He glances at me again, blinking as he takes in my whole body, head to toe.
“I like your outfit,” he says, taking me totally by surprise. His tone is weird, like maybe he thinks something else altogether about the outfit.
“Thank you. All thrifted. I’m trying to be more sustainable, you know?” I shrug. “Leave less of a trace on this planet as I move through it. I think we could all be doing less stomping around on this tiny rock. I mean, international flights across the Atlantic aside.”
He looks amused.
“What’s your name?” he asks, suddenly.
“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”
“Christian,” he says on a small huff of laughter.
“Christian, nice. Suits you.” And it does.
It suits him a lot. “I’m Asher.” Technically, it’s Asher Foxxx, but he doesn’t need to know that.
Not right now, at least. Something tells me this guy would run in the other direction if he knew how I paid my rent and bought my thrifted clothes.
If he knew just how much I believed in my much-celebrated asshole.
“Well, Asher, it was nice seeing you again.”
“You’re really going? Now?”
“Well, I’ve been waiting a while and—” He stops, horrified at the admission. “What I mean is, I’ve been hanging around this coffee shop most of the afternoon, and I think they’re sick of the sight of me.”
I smile because this doesn’t negate anything he said a second ago. He came, and he was waiting for me. He’d waited a while, too.
“Oh, I doubt that. Did you buy something?”
“Coffee. Twice.”
“Then you’re good. Don’t suppose you want another though, huh?” I say.
“I’ve reached maximum coffee intake for the day.”
“What about tea? You obviously drink tea, right?”
His mouth twitches endearingly. “Obviously.”
“Cool, well, I know this little place like two blocks from here, they have basically all the tea in China. Well, outside of China. They have a lot of tea, basically.” I start walking, hoping he’ll follow, but he doesn’t. He hesitates, glancing around and back inside the store. I stop.
“Look, am I misreading all of this? ’Cause like, I had the vibe that you sort of liked my vibe, and well, now your vibes are kinda telling me something else.
So I just want to be clear. Like, absolutely no hard feelings, but did you come back here to see me again?
Or is this just a completely casual coincidence?
” I know it isn’t, he all but admitted that a second ago, but perhaps if I coax it out of him, then he can be coaxed into something else.
Christian blinks, shocked by my directness, I think.
He says, “It’s not a completely casual coincidence.”
I can’t help the grin that spreads over my face.
“Cool. Well, I absolutely came back to see if you were here, and you are, so I think we should go have some tea to celebrate. Or, like, my place isn’t too far from here—maybe a ten-minute drive—so we could go back there, and after you help me unload my antiques and carry them up to my apartment, I could give you the best blowjob you’ve ever had as a thank you.
Totally your call.” It’s a risk. I know it; the guy is jittery.
But to my relief, he laughs, cheeks flushing a little.
And fuck, it’s a sexy laugh. Warm and soft as melted toffee.
“You’re very… direct.”
“So I’ve been told.”
His expression turns serious then as he studies me. “How old are you?”
“How old do you want me to be?”
He tilts his head, chidingly, and raises an eyebrow in warning. It gives daddy vibes.
“I’ll be twenty-five on my next birthday.” Relief seeps into his dark eyes. It gives me some comfort I didn’t know I even needed. Not a creep, then. I put another check in the box in my head.
“I’ve a son your age,” he says.
“He call you daddy?” I ask playfully.
He laughs again. “Not for many years.” After a moment, he says, “So where is this place with all the tea outside of China?”
I order while he finds us a seat. As she slides the tray of matcha green and Earl Grey across to me, Cassie—I come here a lot—looks at where Christian is sitting on the raised section towards the back, sunlight streaming in over him.
“Who’s the daddy in the glasses?” she whispers. He’s scrolling his phone with his back to us.
“I’m about to find out.” I wink and lift the tray.
He sits up straight in his chair as I set it down in the middle of the rosewood table, casting a look at me that makes my legs a little weak.
Something you should know about me right off the bat is that I like older men.
They melt my insides like butter, they harden my cock and make my asshole quiver, and yeah, I know this is likely rooted in my ark-load of childhood trauma, which I saw a therapist about for close to two years, but it is what it is.
And so Christian—an older guy, who also happens to be British—looking up at me, is kind of a lot to contend with right now.
“Earl Grey,” I say as I set his cup and saucer down next to him. He seems to be admiring the cup, which is a sort of retro floral thing that gives New Jersey granny vibes. My own is in a little Japanese handle-less mug in unvarnished clay. This place is kitsch as fuck, which is why I like it.
“Thank you,” he says politely as he lifts it to his mouth and takes a dainty sip.
“So, can I ask you something?” I say as I test the temperature of the mug before lifting it.
He gives me a wary look. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“Well, ask and I’ll decide if I’m going to answer it.”
I grin. “Are you a spy?”
“What?” He laughs. “No. I’m not a spy.”
“Well that’s disappointing.”
“Is it?”
I shrug. “A little, yeah.”
“Sorry.”
“Can I ask you something else?”
He raises an eyebrow, goading, playful.
“Do you have a wife or a husband?” I glance down at the thick gold band on his ring finger. He visibly startles. There’s no shame in his eyes, though, none whatsoever. And then, his face turns a little sad. “I had a wife. I’m widowed.”
“Recently or…”
“She died…” He has to think about this, which, given how cut up he still seems to be about it (and given he’s still wearing her ring) is a little surprising. “Six years ago in October.”
“Shit, sorry.” I want to hit myself because I’ve never once said sorry in relation to someone being dead.
I happen to think ‘sorry’ is the most pointless word in the English language.
Overused to the point where it no longer has any real meaning whatsoever.
There are almost always better words to use; people are just too lazy to think of them.
Christian nods. Then he blinks and shakes his head, clearing the sadness.
“Anyway, tell me something about yourself. I already know you go thrifting and antiquing on Sundays. I know you like tea shops. I know you like sad old widowers who still wear their wedding rings.”
“Sad old widowers who still wear their wedding rings are literally my ideal type. So fucking hot.” I pretend to swoon, and he laughs again.
He really does have a nice laugh. His voice is sort of deep, but with that polish of British politeness around it, so that when he laughs, it’s just this rich, delicious thing I want poured into my ears.
But I didn’t miss the message he’d just beamed across the table.
The message that sounded like a warning.
A bright flashing neon sign that read: emotionally unavailable.
Well, that isn’t a problem for me. I’m pretty emotionally unavailable myself, thanks to a choice of vocation that makes healthy intimate relationships a little complicated.
Which is just fine. I’m not looking to fucking marry this guy.
Just have him fuck me six ways from Sunday.