14. Matty
Chapter fourteen
Matty
Sunday mornings belonged to the guys. A little like how the four women of Sex and the City would gather around a table and gab, Elliot, Sierra, and I did the same once each week on Sunday morning. Well, we tried to. Sometimes hospital scheduling forced our Sunday brunch into Sunday dinner or a late-night snack. No matter what, we were religious about our Sunday service, despite its occasional propensity to change times.
On this particular morning, the gang chose to visit a more upscale breakfast joint, one I’d never set foot into before, Saints+Council. Based on the name and how the “+” formed more of a medieval cross in the logo, I was a bit worried we were attending a very different service than the one planned.
“Where have you two brought us?” I asked, staring at the golden sunburst logo set against a richly paneled wall.
“This place is amazing. Trust me,” Sierra said. “The chef is doing all sorts of new things with breakfast. It’ll be fun.”
“Fun is steak and eggs. No frills. Good food,” Elliot grumbled. “Fun is not feeling underdressed.”
Despite sharing his sentiment, I wasn’t about to let Elliot get away with anything. “Sug, look at you. Jeans, a tattered T-shirt . . . and those shoes. Jesus’s face on a dish towel, were those the sneakers you wore in high school, all those years ago? They’re more worn than a hooker’s pussy.”
Elliot stared down at his threadbare shoes.
Sierra covered her mouth, smothering a laugh.
“You behave,” she said. “This is a respectable place. Talk like that might get us kicked out.”
“At least then we could eat at a real breakfast place like IHOP,” Elliot quipped.
Sierra slapped his arm. “It’s my pick this week, and we’re eating here. Can you two stop being boys for just a few minutes and let me enjoy this?”
I flicked my hair back and waved a hand in the air like I was conducting an invisible orchestra. “Honey, I’ll have you know, I was not being a boy. I am, was, and always will be a proper lady.”
“The only thing ladylike about you is how you can hold your legs over your head without needing stirrups,” Elliot said.
Sierra’s eyes bugged, then she doubled over.
I tried to snark back, but words sputtered and died on my tongue.
The score was Elliot one, Matty zero.
This would not stand.
“Are we ready?” A perky, far too caffeinated college-age girl with her brown hair pulled back in a ponytail so tight it made her eyes look alien appeared, menus in hand. “Your table is ready. Please follow me.”
A towering stacked stone fireplace rose to a vaulted ceiling where thick wooden beams the color of the paneling crisscrossed above. Huge, circular lighting pieces with dozens of bulbs shaped like candle wicks glowed. The lights reminded me of something medieval I saw in a Game of Thrones episode. Everything else about the place reeked of casual elegance, if such an oxymoron could exist without blowing up the planet.
The moment my bottom hit the chair, Ms. Perky was replaced my Mr. I’m On Crack, a server who introduced himself as Steffan. His thick accent tasted of Norway or Sweden, maybe the Netherlands? I could never quite tell. His blond hair and pale skin confirmed my suspicion. The way his smile brightened as his eyes drank in Elliot told me he played for the home team, too.
Shocker, a gay in Midtown who drooled over Elliot, our hunky, muscly, devilishly handsome, and very blue collar best friend. There were romance books with him on the cover—not literally—but there could’ve been. He was annoyingly hot in that “I’m a swarthy pirate who wants to walk your plank and shimmy your timbers in the loudest and most vulgar way possible,” or whatever gay pirates might say.
I wasn’t a pirate aficionado. Too much sand in the toes for my liking.
And they rarely bathed. Where would they on a ship bobbing in the ocean?
Nonetheless, Elliot was fucking hot, and everyone, be they man, woman, or something in between, lusted after his loins. That would’ve been annoying if it hadn’t been so funny.
Elliot was clueless.
He had no idea when someone was flirting or showing interest.
In so many ways, he was a clever guy, but when it came to the abject lusting of others, he was blinder than Ray Charles wearing sunglasses, a blindfold, and a ski mask on backward.
Steffan leaned over Elliot’s shoulder and pointed to something on the menu in his meaty hands. “That is my favorite,” the sexy server whispered. Elliot leaned away, putting more space between them. Steffan leaned further, closing the gap once more. “It has tender short rib that melts in your mouth, and a perfect egg you can pop and watch ooze all over your meat.”
Sierra lost it and had to leave the table, claiming the need to find the ladies’ room.
I raised my menu, ignoring Elliot’s pleading gaze. There would be no salvation for our friend.
“Uh, okay, yeah. Meat. I like meat. Let’s do that,” Elliot said.
Steffan was so close, I thought he might kiss Elliot’s ear—or bite it—but he simply straightened, scribbled on his pad, and nodded once.
Elliot’s shoulders relaxed until Steffan added, “As long as you ooze for me.”
Elliot turned redder than my Bloody Mary.
I thought I might hyperventilate.
For a man so confident in everything he did, Elliot was a babe in the woods when it came to men. It was one of his more endearing qualities—and one about which Sierra and I were relentless.
Alas, on that sunny morn, it was me, not Elliot, who would become the target of our little group’s attention.
“All right, Queen Mary,” Sierra said before even reaching her seat. “Out with it.”
“Out with what?” I asked and batted my eyes in my best Bambi feigned innocence.
Sierra gave me that “I’m a Puerto Rican mama. Don’t mess with me” look.
I batted my lashes again.
She crossed her arms. “Omar. You had a date. We, the jury, need details.”
“Dates,” I corrected.
Her brow furrowed, then rose.
I held up two fingers and wiggled them, then grinned.
“You had two dates?” Elliot asked. “Didn’t you just meet the guy? And . . . I don’t get it. You weren’t walking funny when we came into the restaurant. I can tell when some dude—”
“Thank you, Elliot,” I said, desperate to avoid the mental image that would haunt my waking hours. “Omar and I had two very respectable dates. There was no nakedness or leg spreading or anything else you two heathens might come up with.”
Elliot cocked his head, confusion marring his chiseled features. “No sex? Are you feeling all right? That’s like saying you played football without the ball. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Yeah, your legs are usually wrapped around a guy’s waist before he’s had a chance to introduce himself. What happened to the horny whore we know and love?”
I gasped and clutched my imaginary pearls. “I have never been a whore. I am a giver of free samples, perhaps, but never one paid for my affection. I’m a lady.”
Sierra and Elliot snorted in unison.
“Lady of the evening, perhaps,” Sierra snarked. “No more dicking around. Tell us about Omar and your boring-as-fuck-minus-the-fuck dates.”
Elliot snorted again. He liked wordplay, though I often wondered if he understood the actual words at play. That boy was purdy, bless his heart.
“Fine. Omar is nice. I mean it. He’s genuinely nice.”
Sierra made a motion with her hand I’d seen TV producers give presenters, telling them to “wrap things up.”
I sighed.
“We went to dinner Friday night, then he took me to his bowling league Saturday night. I got to meet some of his friends. It was fun. End of story.” I grabbed my coffee and took a sip, knowing the hounds would never stop with just the whiff I’d just given them.
Sierra crossed her arms.
I looked to Elliot. The dumb ox just stared at me.
“Fine, he’s the son of a fancy diplomat in London. He’s not close to his parents, though he wishes things were different. His grandmother is his closest relative. She lives in Cairo. He’s a new nurse at Piedmont in the NICU.”
“He sounds great,” Elliot said. Big words, big boy. Good job.
Sierra glared. One finger poking out from her crossed arms tapped over and over and over. Her razor-sharp fingernail, painted with glitter, reflected the light of the weird candelabra things hanging from the ceiling.
“What?”
“I knew all that. We work together, remember? I was there when Puppy came to ask you out.”
“Puppy?” Elliot chuckled.
“Not my nickname. She did that.” I pointed to Sierra.
She continued tapping . . . and glaring.
“What? You want to know about his friends? I don’t know much more about him, other than his lips are soft.”
“You kissed him? You said there was no—”
“I said there was no sex or nakedness. I never said we didn’t kiss.”
Sierra’s arms unfurled, and she leaned forward. “Go on.”
I shrugged. “He kind of surprised me. Actually, thinking back, he surprised me all night at bowling. He’d been so skittish about touching or affection the night before. For whatever reason, something changed, and he was touchy Saturday night.”
“Touchy?” Elliot asked. “As in grabbing your goods?”
“No! There was no good grabbing.” I rolled my eyes. “He just . . . I don’t know . . . would put his hand on my shoulder or guide me with fingers in the small of my back. They were little touches, something no one else would even notice.”
“You sure did,” Sierra said, a grin crawling across her face.
I nodded and fought a blush. “Yeah, I did. I mean, they were such small things, but something about him opening up to me, as gradual as it has been, almost makes it more special than if he jumped on my lap.”
Sierra laughed and clapped her hands. “As if he would be the one in your lap. You’ve done more laps than the boys down at Swinging Richards.”
Swinging Richards was an Atlanta staple, one of the longest-running male strip clubs in the Southeast. The men were fine, and the prices were outrageous. I had never received—nor given—a lap dance in the place.
Ignoring my irreverent friend, I continued, “At the end of the night, on the way back to the car, Omar surprised me again by grabbing my arm and pulling me toward him, then planting his lips on mine. It was just one kiss, I know, but still . . . Sisi, it was so soft and—I don’t know. It was like a breeze against my cheek on a warm morning. I could feel it. I knew it was there. It made me warm and feel good and . . . oh, shit.” I froze.
“What?” Elliot leaned forward, squinting to see if I’d pulled something . . . at the table . . . while telling a story.
I covered my mouth, my eyes wide.
Sierra giggled.
“What? I don’t get it. What happened?” Elliot’s gaze ping-ponged between us.
“Our playboy actually likes a boy,” Sierra declared. “He has a crush on Omar.”