Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Ricky
This was totally surreal in, like, the best way.
I was out having a beer with a guy. I’d done this countless times with friends. That was nothing new or special.
No, what made this special, and surreal, was the fact that I was having a beer with a guy who’d kissed me. And sucked me off. I was having a drink with a guy who knew I liked guys, and I knew he did too. That had never happened before.
I was sure I’d met and interacted with other gay men before, but I hadn’t known it.
There may’ve been the odd occasion when I’d suspected—when I’d noticed a guy looking at me a split second too long, like I did when I saw someone attractive—but I’d never knowingly hung out with another gay man before.
I’d definitely never knowingly hung out with another gay man who I knew, or at least desperately hoped, specifically liked me.
Kinda weird to think I’d only met Elliot a week or so ago, yet he already knew the real me better than anyone else in the world. He saw all of me. He knew the parts I hid from everyone else, and he understood, because he hid parts of himself too.
God, I wanted to kiss him again. So bad. I wondered if we’d have the chance—if we’d be able to find somewhere safe and isolated enough to do it.
Once he’d checked over my kitchen at work, Elliot had suggested going for a drink together.
Not just drinking a can each in the office, which felt a little risky to repeat.
The room had stunk of beer all day from the one I’d spilled, and I didn’t think we’d get away with blaming it on Brett’s leaking pores a second time.
I’d agreed immediately. My heart had started pounding right away, and I’d gotten a little sweaty and a lot nervous as I’d wondered if this was… a date. Almost a date. Kind of a date. A secret date.
It had to be, right? He’d told me he liked me. He’d kissed me. He’d sucked my dick. If this wasn’t a date then I was even more woefully ignorant about romance and dating when it came to men than I’d already known I was, having zero experience and all.
We were in a small, dingy bar near the beach, not too far from the mall, that I’d been to many times before because it was cheap.
Most of the clientele in here were younger because of that, plus its proximity to the ocean.
If you came in here around sunset, there were always surfboards haphazardly stacked outside the door, and the managers didn’t seem to care if dudes walked around barefoot and half-naked with their wetsuits peeled down to their hips.
I’d never minded that either.
The surf crowd was long gone now, though, and there were just a few older people drinking in here, most of them weary middle-aged men who sat at the bar in silence, sipping beer with their eyes glued to the football game on the tiny TV above them.
They weren’t here to socialize, just drink and decompress before heading home.
I wondered if they had wives or kids they were avoiding.
That seemed to be a thing that I noticed more and more, the older I got.
Men always joking around about staying late at the office or going for a beer after work just to avoid their “nagging” wives who cooked terrible food and their “damn” kids who never gave them a moment’s peace.
They joked about it, but then they actually seemed to do it.
I’d worked in a couple of fast-food restaurants since my teens, and I’d seen the bars filled with guys in suits every evening when I’d been walking to or from a shift.
It seemed so totally depressing to me. I didn’t want that for myself.
I wanted more. I wanted to enjoy life, to actually experience it, not just settle.
Not just work until I was old and crotchety.
I wanted to be so in love with someone that even after years together, I still couldn’t wait to get home to them.
I wanted to know that I was always growing into a better, more authentic version of me.
Not that all the things that made me unique, made me who I was, would be ground down and worn away to nothing under the monotony of a life that too many people seemed to just end up having, not even realizing they’d completely forgotten who they were as a person, as a unique individual, until it was too late.
I’d already had my first taste of it; feeling like I had to hide a fundamental part of myself from my family and friends out of fear over how they’d react, how society would start to treat me.
And I hated it. I was all too aware of the crushing weight of what was expected of me.
My parents had been beyond disappointed when I told them I didn’t want to go to college.
My mom had only rallied by reassuring both herself and my dad that they wouldn’t have wanted me to meet my future wife at college anyway—college girls were too wild, too loose, and what I needed was a nice, sweet girl who just wanted to be a homemaker and raise lots of babies.
I’d started noticing that crushing weight of expectation in my teens, when it was becoming more and more apparent to me that I had no interest in meeting a girl and getting married and having babies with her.
That weight had only grown heavier each year, each time it felt like I was disappointing my parents by not going to college, not getting what they considered a better job, not meeting a girl.
But the tiny, weakly flickering spark of defiance that had started to grow in me since meeting Elliot actually made it easier to bear that weight.
Didn’t make it feel any lighter, but it almost made me feel stronger.
More able to withstand it. Because I was starting to work out what my boundaries were—where my morals lay.
What I was and wasn’t willing to sacrifice of myself.
Elliot seemed to live so much more freely than I did.
More openly. Not open open, but at least he’d experienced things.
He hadn’t been too terrified to do anything with another guy, like I had before last night.
He seemed comfortable in himself, in his own skin, even with a pretty serious condition that affected his appearance and must’ve made life in general way, way harder.
He was unapologetic about being happy with his job and having no desire to move up some corporate ladder so he could make more money to buy a big house that he would rarely even be in because he’d always be at work.
Just being near him, in his orbit, made me feel braver. Like maybe I could have some semblance of the life I truly, secretly envisioned too. Because I was realizing that I refused to be ground down to nothing. To lose who I was.
Elliot and I were sitting at a small table tucked into the back corner of the bar.
We weren’t touching, except for the edge of his sneaker resting against mine.
And that somehow felt almost as intimate as what we’d done in the office at work last night.
It was making my whole body tingle with awareness.
He’d pressed his foot against mine as a secret little signal.
A message just for me, for us. We both knew what we’d done together, but no one else did. It was ours.
I couldn’t take my eyes off him, but I was trying my best to be discreet about it, to not openly stare.
It was hard, though, because he was just so totally hot in this kinda pale, Gothic way that I’d never realized I was drawn to before.
Then again, I was pretty sure I wasn’t actually drawn to goth guys. I was just drawn to him.
I liked everything about him. The way he looked, the way he dressed, the sound of his voice, that sweet cherry pie scent on his skin. How he looked at me. How he smiled at me. The way he said my name.
The way he kissed me.
My gaze dropped, once again, to his mouth as he took a sip of his beer. His lips curved against the dark green glass in a tiny knowing smile, and I knew my eyes heated when he lowered the bottle and licked his lips.
He leaned in, making my breath catch. I tried not to copy him too eagerly, but my body was just drawn to his. It wanted to be near him. To touch him.
“Tell me something.” His voice was all husky.
So hot. And his tone was low, intimate, which made my entire body buzz with exhilaration once more.
I found myself nodding automatically in agreement, still distracted by his mouth; the way it moved, how each syllable formed.
“How totally bogus is it having to work with that narbo Brett?”
I blinked, then burst out laughing. Elliot grinned, pale eyes tracking me as I sat back and rubbed my hands on my thighs, then shrugged.
“I mean, I try not to talk bad about people, but…”
His eyes flashed with amusement. He leaned in closer. “But…?”
“But…” I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, the smile dropping from my face. “I mean, he isn’t very nice about… certain people, so I don’t actually feel bad saying that… yeah, he’s a total narbo. He’s the worst.”
Elliot nodded, sitting back once more and sipping his beer. “Yeah, he likes to talk shit about us, huh? Us guys in the other kitchen?”
Heat prickled in my cheeks. “Um…”
“It’s okay. We all know what he thinks about us.”
My brows furrowed. “Yeah, well, it sucks. He sucks. I… I don’t just let him say stuff about you guys, by the way,” I added hesitantly. “I don’t want you to think I just let him run his mouth without—”
“I know.” Elliot smiled at me—an uncharacteristically sweet, almost shy smile. He leaned in once more, and I mirrored him. It was like neither of us could go too long without minimizing the distance between us as much as possible. “You’re so fucking cute, Ricky.”
I blushed. Hard. “I am?”
“Yeah.” He nodded, gaze wandering over my face, taking in every detail. I’d never been looked at so closely before, but it wasn’t making me self-conscious. It was just making me hyperaware of myself, of him, of how close our bodies were. “You are. You’re just the sweetest.”