Twelve
Wes
“A guy over there’s staring at you,” Adam comments as he sets my pint on the bar.
I offer a wry smirk and hand over my card. “Well, can you blame him?”
Adam just shakes his head, letting out a soft chuckle. “Yeah, it’s not that kind of stare, mate. You screwed anyone over recently?”
My brow furrows in thought. “Not…recently, I don’t think.”
I take my card back and shove my wallet back into my jeans before grabbing my pint and turning from the bar. And that’s when I see him. Devon Montgomery. “Ah, fuck.”
“You know him?” Adam asks.
“Unfortunately.”
He’s seated on a stool at one of the tall tables that has a perfect view of the bar. And Adam was right. The expression on his face as he watches me across the bar is not one of happiness.
I could just ignore him, but apparently I’m in the mood for torture tonight. Natasha won’t be here for another half hour or so, so why not? This could be entertaining.
“When did you join the Rat Pack?” I ask as I reach Devon’s table.
His brows draw together. “Excuse me?”
I jut my chin at him, gesturing at his appearance; he’s clearly come from work as is dressed in an expensively tailored black suit, his dark hair styled pristinely as usual. “The hair. The suit. Very young Frank Sinatra.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “From anyone else I’d take that as a compliment…”
I let out a soft chuckle and slide onto the stool opposite him, knowing it’s likely to piss him off.
“Don’t get me wrong, the whole clean and fresh 1940s band leader thing looks great on some people…
” I let my words trail off, leaving the implication clear.
Of course, I can’t clarify that he’s actually one of those people who wears the look incredibly well.
All I can think about when I see him looking all clean cut like this is how much I would love to be the one to dirty him up.
“Forgive me if I decide not to take fashion advice from a guy wearing half a pair of jeans and frosted tips.”
I give a dramatic gasp. “How dare you. This is called ombre,” I inform him, gesturing to my hair, which I wear closely cut at the sides but longer on top, with the longer white-blond ends fading into my natural brown. “And don’t even try to pretend it doesn’t look epic.”
He just arches an eyebrow at me and takes a sip of his beer. “If you say so.”
“And, for the record, there is at least three quarters of these jeans left,” I inform him, stretching my legs out so I can prop my feet up on the bottom of his stool.
“Classy,” he murmurs, eyeing my jeans with obvious disapproval.
I give a wry shake of my head. “Why is it that when Kate Moss does it she’s a fashion icon, but somehow I’m trash?”
He screws his nose up in distaste. “I’m not really into Kate Moss, to be honest. I can see why you might find her attractive, though.”
I let out a bark of laughter. “Why on earth would you think I’d be attracted to Kate Moss?”
“Well, she is a model, so…”
I scrutinise his baffled expression for a long moment. “You do know I’m gay, right?”
Devon’s brows shoot up into his hairline and he just stares back at me, wide-eyed. Okay, I guess that’s a no. I draw my feet back from his stool, suddenly feeling a little less comfortable about crowding his space.
“You’re...gay?” he finally asks, his tone one of clear disbelief.
“Yep. I’m surprised Emma didn’t mention it.”
He shakes his head. “She didn’t. I mean, she never said you were straight either, but I kind of just…”
I quirk an eyebrow at him. “Assumed?”
He offers a self-deprecating smile. “Yeah. Sorry. It’s just…you don’t really look…” he trails off, shaking his head again.
I let out a soft chuckle, mildly amused by the uncharacteristic inability to find words. “I get it, it’s confusing. The good news is I’m still allowed to put my cock in other guys’ arses even if I don’t walk around wearing sparkly hot pants and waving a rainbow flag.”
In the irony of all ironies, tonight I just happen to be wearing my red Freddie Mercury World AIDS Day t-shirt, which is basically the gayest piece of clothing I own.
It’s kind of an abstract design, though, and the World AIDS Day logo is small and currently hidden under the table so I really can’t blame Devon for not clocking it.
I’m more surprised that in the two years they were together, Emma never mentioned the fact that I’m into guys; I guess people don’t talk about me as much as I always assumed they did.
Devon rolls his eyes. “You really have no shame, do you?”
I shrug and take a sip of my beer. “Why should I? I have nothing to be ashamed about.”
Devon holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “Hey, I’m not judging.”
I let out a breath of rueful laughter. “Well, that’s a first. Please don’t tell me you’re going to suddenly start being nice to me just because I’m part of a marginalised community.”
The corner of Devon’s mouth quirks up in a wry smirk. “I wouldn’t count on it. You’d have to suddenly stop being a prick, and we both know that’s not going to happen.”
I arch a brow at him. “Well, isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black?”
Devon stares at me for a moment, a strange expression crossing his face. “What did you say?”
My brows shoot up in surprise at his response. “Uh…pot—kettle,” I say slowly, gesturing first to him, then to me. “It’s a common idiom. A roundabout way of calling you a prick.”
He gives a sharp shake of his head, as though trying to dislodge a thought that was stuck in there. “Right. Sorry.”
“What are you doing here, anyway? You live ages away.”
“This isn’t exactly your local, either” he points out. “Don’t you live in Bethnal Green?”
“Poplar,” I correct, not sure where the hell he’s pulled Bethnal Green from. “But even if this place were more than a five-minute bus ride, I’d still come all the time.” I nod toward the bar, where Adam’s serving a customer. “Mate of mine. Went to uni together.”
Devon’s brows shoot up in obvious surprise. “You went to uni?”
I narrow my eyes at him. Could this guy be any more of a fucking snob? “Yes, I went to uni. Fine arts major. Minored in business.”
“Wow, that’s…wow.” He gives a slight shake of his head, as though he can barely believe what he’s hearing.
“Should I be offended that you seem more surprised about this than the fact I like cock?”
Devon starts sputtering again and attempts to disguise his discomfort with a sip of his beer.
“Sorry, I just… You don’t really seem like the academic type.”
I smirk at him. “Have you ever heard the term ‘don’t judge a book by its cover’?”
He nods. “Fair.”
“You never answered my question,” I remind him. “What brings you so far from your natural habitat?”
“It’s actually not that far. Our offices are in Canary Wharf. I’m just waiting for Ryan to finish up work so we can go to the football.”
“Oh, god. Don’t tell me this could become a regular thing?” I say with a mock gasp. “I’ll have to tell Adam to put you on the no-entry list.”
Devon lets out a soft chuckle. “Trust me, I’ll be avoiding this place like the plague from now on.”
I loose a soft breath of laughter and take a sip of my beer. “Which game?”
“Fulham-Man U. We don’t follow either team but we’ve got box tickets so it should be fun.”
“Fancy.”
“Let me guess—Gunners fan?” he asks with a smirk.
I scowl at him. “Why the fuck does everyone think I’m an Arsenal fan? Do I have an actual dick growing out of my head?”
Devon snorts and almost chokes on his beer. I stare at him, momentarily stunned; did Devon Montgomery actually just snort-laugh at something I said? The world must be going mad.
“Actually, it was the red t-shirt,” he clarifies once he’s managed to regain his composure. “But, yes, you are that much of a dick.”
I clutch a hand to my chest, affecting a mock-pout. “I’m pretty sure that’s the most horrible thing you’ve ever said to me.”
He rolls his eyes. “I have no doubt you’ll recover. So, who’s your team then?”
“West Ham, of course.”
“West Ham?” Devon repeats, almost choking on his beer.
“Yeah.” I have to admit, I’m a little unnerved by his reaction. Not only did he almost just die from reckless beer consumption, but he’s now staring at me as though I’m Banquo’s ghost, come back to haunt him. “Jeez, what the hell’s with you tonight?”
He gives a sharp shake of his head. “Nothing. I’d better go. Ryan will be waiting.”
Before I can utter another word, Devon slides off his stool and makes a beeline for the exit, leaving his beer unfinished.
Devon
I try to ignore the nagging thought and just enjoy my night out with Ryan, but it’s there, eating away at me, making it impossible to cast aside.
I must be going mad. There’s just no way. Out of the billions of people in the world, there is no possible way I’ve spent the past few weeks emailing with Wes Holt. And yet, I just can’t seem to shake the suspicion…
The second I get home, I grab a beer from the fridge and then stride over to the living area. Collecting my laptop from the coffee table, I sink onto the couch and bring up my email account, combing through every single exchange I’ve had with Waho over the past few weeks.
I feel my cheeks burning hot as I re-read all the confessions I’ve made about my unhealthy attraction to my ex’s brother.
For a moment I feel a sense of reprieve, because if it is Wes, how has he not put the pieces together yet?
But the relief is short-lived. Of course, he hasn’t figured it out yet; he would have no reason to ever suspect it’s me—as far as he knows I have no interest in men whatsoever.
I wouldn’t be considering Wes a possibility right now if I hadn’t learned that he’s not actually the hundred percent alpha straight guy I’d always assumed him to be up until this evening.
Now that the matter of his orientation has been cleared up, it’s impossible to ignore the now glaring similarities between Wes and Waho.
Christ, no wonder I find Waho so bloody infuriating.
The difference is, for some insane reason I actually enjoy bickering with Waho, although that could be because I’m not being constantly visually assaulted by all the tattoos and piercings and the infuriating smirk and the t-shirts that cling to his hard chest…
I give a sharp shake of my head, willing the image away. Now is really not the time to be going down that road.
The further I get into the emails, the harder it becomes to deny the obvious and I feel insanely dumb for not picking up on it sooner.
How did I not realise that the bands Waho listed off as some of his favourites were ones whose album covers and song titles are printed on several of Wes’s t-shirts?
And then there’s that other thing. The thing he said about his sibling’s ex—the guy he doesn’t like:
But what can I say? He’s fit as. I mean, he’s got a stick lodged so far up his arse I doubt my cock would even fit in there, but I’d sure love to try anyway.
My mind wanders back to our conversation earlier tonight, when Wes casually mentioned putting his cock in other guys’ arses. I let out a loud groan and toss my head back against the couch. Yeah, I’d love for him to try too…