Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
HUDSON
One year after Selection
The following night, Hudson found himself crammed into a corner booth at a bar in the West Village. Taylor had picked it with suspicious efficiency, like she had a list of gay bars ready to go, waiting for her brother to have a sexuality crisis.
The place was called Therapy, which Hudson thought was a little too on the nose.
The noise hit the second they walked in—bass thrumming through the floor, voices layered over voices, laughter loud and sudden from somewhere to his left.
Hudson's brain did its usual thing, mapping exits and crowd density, except the hazards here were shirtless bartenders and the overwhelming smell of cologne and sweat and something sweet he couldn't identify.
Guys packed every inch of the place. The bar three-people-deep, tight clusters near the DJ booth, a couple making out against a wall like they'd forgotten other people existed. Hudson's eyes caught on them half a second too long before he looked away.
"So?" Taylor leaned across the table, grinning like this was the best night of her life. "What do you think?”
"It's... loud."
Taylor stared at him. "That's your review? It's loud?"
"And crowded."
"Hudson."
"What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to tell me if you’re attracted to anyone here."
Hudson scanned the room again. There were objectively attractive men everywhere. Tall guys, built guys, guys with the kind of bone structure that probably made them money. His brain tried to catalog them the way he was trained.
The guy near the bar was too broad. The one on the dance floor moved wrong, too loose, too easy, no control. The couple making out against the wall were both too... something. Too available. Too obvious.
Nothing felt right.
"I don't know," Hudson said. "They're all—"
"All what?"
Wrong, Hudson's brain supplied. Wrong height, wrong build, wrong way of moving through space, wrong voice, wrong everything.
"Different," he said instead.
Taylor's mouth curved knowingly. "Different from Elliot, you mean."
He shot her a look.
She raised her hands. "Okay, okay."
They were halfway through their second drink when the opening bars of an uncomfortably familiar song cut through the noise.
Taylor’s head snapped up like a dog hearing a whistle when Dancing On My Own came through the speakers. "Oh my GOD." She grabbed Hudson’s arm. "We have to."
“Absolutely not.”
“Hudson—”
“Taylor, we’re not kids anymore.”
She was already dragging him toward the dance floor, his protests lost in the music.
Hudson knew there was no point telling her no—Taylor was already moving, and his feet followed before his brain could object.
Feet first, stepping in sync, arms up on the second beat.
Three steps right, arms out, spin—Taylor half a beat behind as always.
Then the footwork, quick and well-rehearsed, into the handshake that was more elbow than hand, finishing with a hip bump that sent Taylor stumbling sideways every single time.
She caught herself on his arm, laughing too hard to stay upright.
Hudson let his inhibitions go.
He didn’t notice Taylor had stopped moving until she said, “Huh.”
He kept dancing. “What?”
She was watching him with a funny expression. Arms crossed. Head tilted.
“What?” Hudson said again.
“Nothing.” The corner of her mouth pulled up. “Just… can’t believe I ever thought you were straight.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m just saying, those hips—”
“Taylor. I swear to god.”
She bent over laughing.
Someone slid into the space behind him—close, unhurried, moving to the same beat. Hands settled on Hudson’s hips.
His eyes closed. The song was still going, the line about distance and nearness, and for a second the hands were different. More certain. The kind that knew exactly where to—
He opened his eyes.
Taylor studied him from across the floor with an expression that wasn’t teasing anymore.
Hudson stepped forward, breaking the contact, not turning around. Whoever it was, he didn’t matter.
Taylor appeared at his elbow, fanning herself dramatically. “Come on. I need a drink.”
They slid back into the booth fifteen minutes later clutching two beers.
Hudson scanned the room more out of habit than interest. A guy near the bar caught his eye and smiled.
"Oh my god," Taylor said, following his gaze. "He's cute. Go talk to him."
"No way."
"Hudson—"
"I'm not walking up to some random guy."
"That's literally the entire point of being here."
“The point of being here is to figure out if I'm attracted to men. I can do that from this booth."
"That's not how this works."
"That's exactly how this works. I look. I assess. I make observations."
Taylor rolled her eyes. "You sound like you're on a mission."
"Everything's a mission if you think about it hard enough."
"Oh my god, you're hopeless." Taylor grabbed her now empty beer and stood. "Fine. I'll go get us another round and you can sit here observing like a creep. But if someone comes over to talk to you, you're not allowed to run away."
"I have never once run away from anything in my life.”
Taylor left, shaking her head, and Hudson was alone with his beer and the uncomfortable awareness that several guys in his general vicinity were studying him.
The guy who'd smiled at Hudson earlier leaned against the bar, watching.
He was tall, maybe six-one, dark hair styled in a way that probably required serious effort, wearing a button-down with the sleeves rolled up to show off his forearms. Attractive, but a little too self-assured. Not Hudson's type.
Well, Hudson wasn't sure he had a type when it came to men. He had a type when it came to women—smart, funny, able to put up with his shit. But men? The only reference point he had was Shaw, who was—
Nope. Not going there.
The guy continued to eye him. Hudson focused on his beer as if it was the most interesting thing in the room.
"Hey."
Hudson raised his gaze. The guy had moved closer, now standing next to the booth with a drink in hand and an easy smile that probably worked on most people.
"Hi," Hudson said.
"Mind if I sit?"
Hudson glanced toward the bar where Taylor very obviously watched the interaction and gave him an enthusiastic thumbs up.
He was going to kill her.
"Sure," Hudson said.
The guy slid into the booth across from him. Up close, he was even better looking, defined jaw, nice eyes, forearms that suggested he actually used his gym membership.
"I'm Derek."
"Hudson."
"Hudson." Derek leaned forward slightly. "Haven't seen you here before."
"First time."
"Yeah? How are you liking it?"
Hudson tried to think of something to say that wasn't "it's loud and I'm having an existential crisis." He landed on, "It's... different."
Derek laughed. "Different good or different bad?"
"To be decided."
"Fair enough." Derek took a sip of his drink, giving Hudson steady attention that should have been flattering, but mostly made Hudson aware of how out of his element he was. "So what brings you here? Besides the obvious."
Hudson wondered what the obvious was.
"My sister,” he nodded toward the bar where Taylor was now very deliberately not looking at them. "She thought I needed to get out more."
"Your sister brought you to a gay bar?"
"It's a long story."
"I've got time."
Hudson tipped his beer back, buying himself a second to think. Derek was a good looking guy. He was also clearly interested, which should be… exciting? Nerve-racking?
"Not much to tell," Hudson said. "I'm home on leave. She dragged me out. Here we are."
"Leave?" Derek's expression shifted with interest. "You're military?"
"Yeah."
"Pilot?"
"How'd you guess?"
"Your posture." Derek grinned. "Most military guys I've met have been Army or Navy. Pilots are usually—" He paused, smirking. "Well, they're usually pretty full of themselves."
Hudson smiled despite himself. "Ahh. I see.”
"So are you? Full of yourself?"
Hudson met Derek's eyes—dark brown, amused, waiting for Hudson to say something charming or clever or flirtatious. This was the part where Hudson was supposed to lean in, play along, see where this went.
Instead, all he could think was that Derek's eyes were the wrong color, and none of it felt right because—
Because he wasn't Shaw.
"You okay?" Derek asked, tilting his head.
"Actually," Hudson said, "I should probably—"
"There you are!" Taylor appeared at the table like she'd been summoned, sliding into the booth next to Hudson with fresh drinks. "Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt. I'm Taylor. Hudson's sister."
"Derek." He shook her hand, looking amused. "I was just getting to know your brother."
"Oh good. He needs more friends." Taylor shot Hudson a look that very clearly said don't you dare bail on this. "How's it going?"
"Great," Derek said at the same time Hudson said, "Fine."
Taylor's grin widened. "Fantastic. Well, I'll just—" She got up.
"You know what?" Hudson said, catching her arm. "Can I talk to you for a second?"
"Now?"
"Yeah. Now."
Taylor obviously caught the edge in Hudson’s voice. "Uh, sure. Excuse us," she said to Derek, who raised his eyebrow and nodded.
Hudson pulled her toward the bathrooms. He eyed the crowded bar behind her—the music, the bodies, the sultry looks. "I don't think I'm ready for this."
"Ready for what? Talking to people?"
"Ready for—" Hudson gestured vaguely at the bar. "This. I don’t know. It’s weird."
Taylor softened. "Okay. So what do you need?"
Hudson rubbed the back of his neck. “To stop comparing every guy in here to someone who’s three thousand miles away?”
“I’m not sure that’s something I can fix.”
“Yeah.” He exhaled. “Maybe this was a bad idea. I should go home."
"Or," Taylor said, "maybe stop treating this like a pass-fall exam." She bumped his shoulder. “You came here. You talked to a guy. He wasn’t your type—still counts."
"Does it? Because I still don't know if I'm actually into men or if Elliot broke my brain."
Taylor's mouth twitched. "Broke your brain or broke your—"
"Don't." Hudson pointed at her. "Finish that sentence and I'm leaving."
Taylor laughed. “Fiiine, grumpy.”