Chapter 22
Sam
It takes me three days to work up the courage, plus I have to wait for Gran to go dancing with Eugene again.
And then I don’t know what to wear. There’s this weird moment like a reflex when I take out my phone to ask Gray, but then I remember I blocked him.
So, I end up wearing what I always wear when I don’t know what to wear: a polo and khakis and my good sneakers.
The Pretty Pretty isn’t busy tonight. I’ve driven past it plenty of times on patrol, and I’ve even been inside before—but only when I was on duty, and only when I had official business. Guys get into fights. Somebody has too much to drink and won’t leave. Or one time, Gray got roofied.
It’s different, though, tonight, because I’m wearing my civvies, and I have to stop at the front door to show my ID.
I glance around while the guy checks it out, and when he hands it back to me, he’s got this look on his face like he knows what I’m doing—like I’m worried someone will see me.
I smile and put my ID away and go inside because people will think what they want to think.
The club isn’t busy in the middle of the week, but it’s got a decent crowd.
It’s got a big dance floor, and it’s got a bar, and lights on the wall that glow different colors.
It smells like cologne and hot bodies and something sweet.
Music is playing—something that’s got a heavy beat and no words—and it’s loud enough that the bass buzzes in my joints.
It’s mostly guys in here, but there are some women too.
I stay by the entrance for a few minutes, checking out the space.
The guys range in age—some of them younger than me, some of them a lot older.
Mostly White, although there are a few Black and Latino men too.
Some people are dancing, but I’d say more people are at the bar or in the booths, drinking and talking.
A couple of guys notice me. They’re not shy about making eye contact, and it takes me a few seconds to realize they’re not trying to start something.
Well, I guess they are, but not what I thought.
I head for the bar, and I can feel eyes following me.
It’s not exactly a new feeling. When you’re in uniform, people stare, so I know what it feels like to have people watching me.
But this isn’t the same. This is a different kind of interest. I try not to look, but I still glimpse faces as I move across the room.
Some of them are open, interested. Others are more reserved.
But I finally know what it means when somebody says fresh meat.
The bartender is shirtless and wearing little black shorts that barely hide his junk.
He’s got a lot of lean muscle: a broad chest, big biceps, defined abs.
Tight little nipples. He shaves under his arms. And that makes my eyes wander, and it looks like he must shave his treasure trail too, and when I catch myself, the bartender is watching me, grinning.
He’s waiting, so I say, “Bud Light,” just to say something.
“Isn’t that butch?” he says, and he’s back with the beer in a minute. He doesn’t set it on the bar; he hands it to me, and he rubs my fingers with his thumb. When he takes my cash, he says, “Maverick.”
It takes me too long, and my face gets hot when I finally realize I’m supposed to say my name. “Sam.”
“Let me know if you need anything, stud.” And then Maverick moves down the bar.
He’s got a great butt; he’s practically bursting out of those little shorts.
That’s something I’ve never thought before, not all the way out loud like that.
Maverick looks back and catches me again, and he smiles real big, and I take a drink of the beer because I have no idea what to do.
It’d be a good ass to fuck, I think.
It’s like I’m trying out the thought. Seeing if it fits. And I guess it does, because I get this image of squeezing Maverick’s fat ass, spreading him open, sinking into him. I fucked Gray so hard his head bounced off the wall. I drink some more beer. I could do that to Maverick too.
He looks over like he can hear me, and he smiles again, and that’s when I realize I’m at half-mast.
It’s not busy tonight. A couple of guys sit next to me and try to talk.
They’re nice enough, but every time they sit down, Maverick drifts back.
He doesn’t exactly do anything, but he leans over the bar, he touches my arm, he smooths my shirt and says, “There,” like it had a wrinkle or something.
And the guys who sit next to me leave, one after another. Some of them give Maverick dirty looks.
“I’m up for my break,” Maverick says the next time he comes back. And then he looks at me like he asked me a question.
“Oh,” I say. And I can’t help it; I smile. “Yeah.”
Maverick rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling too. “So, do you have a car or something?”
“Uh huh,” I say. My head’s bouncing like it’s on a string. “Yeah.”
He laughs for some reason and tells me to hold on.
He says something to an older man, who takes Maverick’s place behind the bar, and then Maverick is pulling on a thin white tee that is so tight I can see everything underneath it, which I guess is probably the whole point.
He comes over and takes my hand and leads me outside, and when we pass the bouncer, he says, “Maverick, just give a shout,” and I realize it’s because he thinks I might do something.
Maverick laughs at whatever he sees on my face. “We get some weirdos. Come on, where’s your car?”
He likes that it’s a truck. He says, “Very butch,” again like it’s a good thing, and he likes it even more when I open the back door and help him up.
He’s got nice, long legs. They’re smooth and tan, even though it’s April, almost like a girl’s.
Gray has some hair on his legs. Not a lot, because he’s not a hairy guy, but you couldn’t miss that Gray’s a man.
At the top of those legs is Maverick’s thick ass.
Those shorts look damn near ready to split.
He’s on me as soon as I close the door, climbing onto my lap, kissing me.
He tastes sweet, like candy, and there’s a hint of weed, too, and that’s when I realize Maverick is maybe a little drunk and definitely high.
He runs his hands over my chest, and he makes this little whimper like he found a new treat, and then he says, “Why aren’t you touching me? ”
So, I slip my hands under his shirt and touch his belly.
He’s so smooth, and the muscle under that skin is dense and strong.
I run my hands up to those tiny nipples and flick them, and Maverick lets out a little breath and scoots forward.
He starts kissing my neck, and that revs my motor, so I’m a little rougher with him, and he moans, “Fuck, yes, fucking work my tits.”
That gets me hard as a rock.
Maverick must feel it, because I can feel him; he’s hard too, grinding on me, and he starts fumbling with the button on my khakis. “I’m going to suck you off,” he says. “You can pull my hair. I like it. Tell me at the end that I can come, okay?”
“Whoa,” I say. I’m trying to grab his hands, but he’s like a snake. “Hey. Hold on.”
“Fuck, this is so fucking hot. God, I wish you could fuck me, but my stomach is so messed up tonight.”
“Slow down,” I say.
But he’s got my waistband open and my zipper down, and he moves on to himself, unsnapping the little button on the front of his shorts.
He’s not wearing underwear, so when he skins himself out of the shorts, his dick juts out.
He’s shaved down here too. The first thing I think is that his dick is cute, and that’s a new thought too.
It’s not as nice as Gray’s, but it looks good on Maverick, and he’s got a little bead of pre on the tip.
“Hey,” I say, and I look around. “Hey, we’re in public.”
“Yeah,” he says, trying to slither off my lap. “Yell at me.”
“I’m not—” I grab his arm. “Stop, okay? I’m not doing this in public.”
“What?”
“Let’s stop. Why don’t you come back up here? I liked kissing you.”
He stares at me. And then he says, “Are you fucking kidding me?”
It’s unreal, like I have to explain something, but I don’t know why I have to explain. “Somebody could see us.”
“You stupid piece of shit. Wasting my fucking time.”
“Hold on.”
But he’s pulling the shorts back up, swearing at me. “Fucking closet case motherfucker.” He leers up at me. “Sorry to break it to you, buddy, but you got hard enough to drill when you were grabbing my ass. You’re a faggot first fucking class.”
“That’s not—wait a second, nobody said—”
He knocks my hand away from his arm. And then he shoves me hard enough that I bounce off the back of the seat. He shoves me again, and then he yanks open the door. He’s carrying his shirt in one hand. As loud as he can, he screams, “This guy is a fucking faggot!”
And then he slams the door.
I sit there for a while.
Then I button my khakis and get out. I can’t help looking, but there’s nobody on the street. The bouncer didn’t come running, which I guess is a good thing. I get in the driver’s seat, and I head home.
When I get there, Dad’s truck is parked out front, and the garage door is up, and Gran’s Caddy is up on a jack. I check the clock. It’s after nine.
I don’t know if I believe in God. I don’t think about it much.
But it sure seems like somebody out there likes coincidences.
I don’t rush inside, though. I sit there for a while.
And at first, I’m just sitting. But then I start thinking.
And then I can’t stop thinking. I’m thinking about Gray, and what it felt like the first time I kissed him.
And how I shot in my shorts—it’s not quite as fun remembering this part, but there’s a part of me that can look back now and think maybe it was a little hot too.
I’m thinking about what it felt like to be touched after a long, long time when nobody touched me.
I’m getting hard again—or partway there, anyway—thinking about it, and that makes me mad at Gray and mad at myself and embarrassed, like the time we ran the hundred-yard dash in sixth-grade PE, and Mr. Sanderson told me to take down the flagpole.
But I guess that’s what it’s like, having a dick. It’s got a mind of its own.
And now it’s like I’m running over everything again in my mind, and it feels almost the way it did when I was getting ready for the Greek Life outreach, or when I’m studying for a tactical course, or when I was getting my notes in order to talk to Chief Peterson.
Like I’ve got to check everything one last time, like I want to put my hands on every piece of it to make sure it’s there and it’s in the right place and I didn’t miss anything.
Because now I’m thinking about Maverick, about his long, tan legs, and about his ass in those shorts.
I’m thinking about his mouth, and how his kisses were different from Gray’s, how he tasted like candy, and he had that soft body and that cute little cock. And I’m still hard.
I’m thinking about all the things I never let myself say before, or think, or admit.
I’m thinking about the morning after that first night with Gray, and how I felt.
He’d expected me to freak out, but I didn’t feel freaked out.
I just felt like me. Like more of me. More myself, I guess. And that feeling hadn’t gone away.
I think about Maverick yelling, This guy is a fucking faggot.
And I think about how much I hurt, too. That big, bottomless ache that’s been there ever since the fight with Gray. And I don’t know a lot about relationships, but I don’t think anything can hurt that much if it’s not real. If some of it isn’t real, at least.
I think about my dad, sitting inside Gran’s house. And about the guys I grew up with. And how much of my life I’d wasted because I wanted them to like me.
I think about why I said yes to Gray, when he asked me to pretend to be his boyfriend. How I thought I didn’t know why I was saying yes. But maybe a part of me did know. I guess I know now.
And that was it. The end. Like I’d got all the pages in my workbook filled out, or like I’d lined up the edges of a stack of papers.
That restless thing prowling around inside my chest curls up finally.
And there’s a feeling, too. Not quite words.
But it makes me think of the way it feels when you tighten a nut on a bolt, the threads lining up, everything turning and locking into place.
And then I take the keys out of the ignition and go inside.