11. Omar
Chapter eleven
Omar
Dinner was even better the second time. Rooster’s was a casual place that served rotisserie chicken and a wide variety of Southern-style vegetables. To a London boy like me, the place was both alien and the most amazing spot in town. It didn’t hurt that cheap prices and good food were like magnets for gays who lived, worked, or worked out nearby. I specify worked out because there were three gay-dominated gyms within a couple of miles of the restaurant, and many of the tables surrounding us were filled with sweaty, tank-top wearing, muscly men.
I had died and gone to people watcher heaven.
Then Matty walked in. It was like in TV shows when they blur everyone but the primary star, making them stand out and somehow look even more Hollywood hot than they already were.
That was what happened.
Beefcakes everywhere turned to fuzzy versions of their veiny selves, as a skinny boy with shiny blond curls sashayed his way across the dining room and plunked his cute little tush into the chair across from me.
“Something wrong?” he asked, his toothy grin almost too bright to look at directly. Apparently, my mouth was frozen open.
“You, uh, wow. You look great.”
As promised, he wore black on black. His jeans were tight enough to tell what religion he was, and his shirt, while mostly black, had swirls of electric navy blue that made the gray of his eyes somehow glow.
I hadn’t felt anything like that in a very long time. I wasn’t sure quite what to think.
“Thanks.” He beamed, then leaned forward as if to whisper a secret. “You’re fucking adorable. I’d toss every one of these gym dudes to the curb just to cuddle up next to you.”
I had to blink a few times to realize I really was there, sitting across from a beautiful man who just called me adorable . . . again. My heart felt like it was in one of those Olympic speed walking races where the runners—racers, whatever they’re called—weren’t allowed to lift one foot before the other hit the ground.
Sweet Osiris, that was a terrible analogy.
“Wow. Thanks,” I said, ducking my head behind the plastic menu whose corners might’ve been chewed on by the last diner to lift it.
We ordered, and I gorged on chicken, fried okra, and fried sweet potatoes. Matty ate some chicken pot pie concoction that would’ve had him thrown out of any respectable British pub. He force-fed me a bite to try, and I reluctantly admitted it was delicious.
Somewhere in Britain, a barkeep rang a bell or wrote my name on the “do not serve” list. I could feel it.
As we waited for our server to return with the check and my credit card, Matty planted his elbows on the table, clasped his hands like a little basket, and set his chin in his digit-cradle. His eyes were so wide and clear, blinking up at me, I wanted to stare all night.
“So, what’s this bowling thing we’re doing? I hope I’m not overdressed.”
“You are perfect.” I grinned, then realized what I’d just said and swallowed hard. “You look great. I mean, your clothes are fine for bowling. There.”
“You’re not very good with compliments, are you?”
“I give compliments just fine, thank you very much. I said you were perfect.”
“That is a statement of fact, not a compliment.” His grin turned predatory. “And I was talking about receiving, not giving.”
I must’ve blushed again, because he laughed and sat back. “Compliments, not sex, silly. Unless you want to talk about sex? I’ve been dying to ask how big—”
“Matty!”
“Just kidding. Sort of. Not really.” He hooted. “Back to bowling.”
“Right. Well, I have played in the local gay league since uni. A couple of friends got me into it.”
“Friends? Oooh, I get to meet your friends.”
I chuckled. Matty was more of a character than anyone I knew.
“Yes, you do. You’ll like them. They’ve been together now for two years, I think, maybe three. I lose count.”
“A couple. Nice. Don’t tell me anything about them. I want to meet them and guess. It’s a little game I used to play with my brother and sister when we were younger. We’d spy people talking to our parents and try to guess who they were, what they did for a living, what their voices sounded like, that sort of thing. My brother is the best at voices.”
“At voices?”
Matty nodded. “We would sit across a room, watching them talk, and he would make up dialogue for their conversation, giving the woman a high-pitched voice and the man whatever he thought he looked like. Sometimes he would switch it up. We used to laugh till our sides hurt.”
“Used to?”
He waved his hand in the air. “We’re older now and don’t live in the same city. I don’t doubt we’d fall right back into our old silliness if we were closer.”
That was a relief. I thought I was about to hear some tragic tale of his brother being mauled by a bear on a camping trip; though that would be somewhat rare, statistically speaking.
The check and card arrived, so we piled into my car and headed toward the bowling alley. On the drive, Matty reached down to fiddle with the A/C, resting his hand on the armrest when he had it set the way he wanted. Before I realized what he was doing, the sides of our hands brushed, and his fingers crept atop mine.
“Is this okay?” he asked.
Damn, a man who asked permission just to hold my hand. I think I swooned again, right there in the car, while driving.
“Sure.”
The moment I said the word, his hand went from gentle, tentative touching to entwined fingers, squeezing with all the affection the boy could muster. My heart did that speed-walker happy dance thing again, and without meaning to—or even realizing what I was doing—I squeezed back.