Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Ulysses
Telling myself not to get hard there on the dance floor and actually succeeding were, apparently, two very different things.
I didn’t want Finn to think this nebulous connection was all about sex for me.
I would need to woo him, I suspected, to gain his trust. He wasn’t angry—but he clearly wasn’t happy either.
“Relax, baby. I got you.” He whispered the words in my ear as he ran his left hand down my right flank, then meandered it down to my ass where he squeezed.
Squeezed.
“Baby?” A little gruffer than I wanted. I cleared my throat. “Baby? Seriously?”
He chuckled, pressing his cheek against mine so he could again whisper in my ear. “That’s what you called me when you fucked me. I think a little reversal is fair play.”
Did I? I wracked my brain. Holy shit. Yes, I did.
I couldn’t remember another time I’d done that with a guy.
I wasn’t into that level of intimacy—with anyone.
So the fact I’d gone there so quick with this man—in the throes of passion, obviously, meant my subconscious had been at work all those months ago.
Apparently, it knew more about me than I did. Well, it is your subconscious.
Sometimes I hated my inner voice.
“Did you like it when I called you baby?” Because now I needed to know. If he saw it as a denigration then I’d never—
He rubbed his crotch against mine, bushing our cocks. His hands trailed down my back and cupped my ass. Again, he pressed against me. “Oh yeah, I liked it. But we can’t call each other baby.” He nipped my earlobe.
I nearly came right there—on the fucking dance floor. “I like…something…” You expect me to think at a moment like this? Yet this was completely unlike me. I always had my shit together. I was always the aggressor.
Always implied I did this often. I did not do this often. Or at least not often enough.
Yet I’d been celibate for the entire time since I’d fucked Finn. Not my longest dry spell, by any means—but getting up there. Again, I cleared my throat. “What would you like to call me?”
He laughed, his breath ghosting across my neck. “Well, I don’t reckon you’d take to sugar.”
“No.” Easy to reject that.
“How about sweetheart?”
I tried to pull back—to gaze into his eyes—but he held me firm.
“Don’t like that?”
For the third time, I cleared my throat. Like I was getting a fucking cold or something. “Sweetheart implies a level of intimacy we don’t, I think, at this moment possess.”
“Would you want to?”
“Want to…?”
“Possess that level of intimacy.” He brushed our cocks together again.
This was downright obscene. I comforted myself that no one under nineteen was going to see us—the legal drinking age in Canada—and if they came here, they likely were expecting some level of raunchiness.
Tell yourself that—if it brings you comfort.
Right.
I brushed my cheek against his. “So if I invited myself back to your cabin, then we could continue our journey back to intimacy?” Jesus fucking Christ, you’re out of your mind. You still don’t know if he’s a good guy or not. He could be up to his neck—
Finn chuckled, just as the music changed.
Wham. Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go. Personally, I preferred Careless Whisper. And not just because I wanted to continue holding him close.
“I never put out on the first date.” He yelled the words, and then was promptly dragged away by Stephanie and Cooper, who began bopping to the beat.
Lachlan and Taryn sat at the table, tapping out the rhythm.
Since I’d finished my drink—and therefore had no reason to go back to the table—I left.
Well, I had a jacket to retrieve from coat check, because riding a motorcycle without a jacket was true lunacy.
Coat in hand, I stepped out into the cool, dark night.
Because of the light pollution, I couldn’t see the stars.
They were out there, though, on this cool, clear night.
I avoided driving the bike in the pouring rain or during snow.
That hadn’t been a problem since arriving in Mission City, but it would soon be.
Southwestern British Columbia’s snowfall varied from year to year.
In Vancouver, I was able to use transit to get just about anywhere I wanted to get when weather grounded my bike.
Plus, after I’d done my time as cub reporter, I’d moved to the investigative desk.
I’d spent more time chasing down leads from my desk than running around the city.
Yeah. How’d that work out for you?
I mounted my bike, put on my helmet, and started the engine.
Riding a bike with a hard-on sucked. Fortunately, my boner had pretty much deflated and no way was I going to think about Finnegan O’Sullivan’s ass while I drove home.
I had two choices. Either Golden Ears bridge, Maple Ridge, and then Mission City.
Otherwise, I could take the TransCanada highway to Abbotsford, through that town, and then over the Mission-Abby bridge.
About equidistant, but I didn’t want to do the big highway at this time of night.
People sped everywhere, but someone was clocked at nearly two hundred klicks last week.
Stupid teenager with just a learner’s permit and his mother’s red Ferrari.
Doubt he’ll be behind the wheel legally anytime soon.
Also, I’d done a story about the son of a bigwig business guy in Vancouver. The son had crashed a Lambo.
I headed toward Golden Ears.
Interestingly, I’d done a follow-up on the son.
Kellan something. He’d turned his life around—enrolled in the University of British Columbia as a psych major.
Moved in with his boyfriend. Some scientist he’d met after the Lambo debacle.
A real phoenix rising out of the ashes, that kid.
That said, his bigoted father had rejected him.
I’d delved into that and found the father had been involved with some shady shit. Felt good to bring that asshole down a peg or two and get the tax authorities interested in him.
I watched my speed carefully as I navigated the sparse traffic I found on the bridge. Soon I took the off-ramp and cut my speed as I headed down the Lougheed highway. Businesses and trailer parks guided me until the Haney Bypass.
Still not thinking about the fact I’m going to fly past the turnoff to the street that leads to Finn’s cabin. I’d only been there once, but the memory of how to get there burned bright in my memory. Something I’d never forget.
One of my greatest regrets.
And I had more than a few—so that was saying something.
I catalogued all the things I had to do as I headed toward downtown Mission City.
Yesterday’s paper had gone out without a hitch.
My reporter Spring was covering the hockey tournament this weekend.
Pretty much the most exciting thing in town.
Next weekend was the turkey dinner for the homeless.
Which reminded me—I hadn’t made a donation yet.
I wasn’t flush with cash, but I could contribute to a Thanksgiving dinner for those less fortunate.
I hit the remote and drove into the underground parking of my condo building.
Selling my beautiful place in Vancouver so I could buy something in Mission City hadn’t been easy.
From soaring concrete in the sky—seventeenth floor looking over Coal Harbor—to a fourth floor looking out over Cedar Valley and beyond.
Not quite the same. Still, I’d done so well with selling my little piece of heaven—emphasis on little—that I was mortgage free in Mission City.
At first, I’d resisted. I wasn’t staying, after all.
This was just a blip before I made it back to a big-city paper.
Now I’d come to see I’d run out of options.
Going back to Vancouver wasn’t likely. And that hurt.
I parked in my spot and dismounted. I pursed my lips. Buying here was an acknowledgement that I likely wouldn’t earn in income what the appreciation on this place would be and, more importantly, I wouldn’t be paying rent to some random landlord. I owned my place. That had to be good enough.
Still, this was a step down.
The elevator took me to my floor, and I slipped into 412. I liked my neighbors. Well, what little I saw of them. Many had dogs since the building allowed two pets per unit, and the pooches could be any size.
I could get a dog. God knows, I mostly work from home and I could certainly take the dog into the office when I go. Spring would lose her mind. She was always carrying on about the therapy dog, Tiffany, at her sister’s ranch, Healing Horses.
At first, I’d thought they rehabilitated horses.
Nope. The horses were therapy horses. The dog was a therapy dog. The patients were humans in need of help. Out of curiosity, I’d checked their website. Notable testimonials. Those could be faked, of course. Still…I’d been impressed.
Then my intrepid junior reporter would carry on about her other sister, the dog trainer, and how successful she was.
Again, I’d dug up the website for Torah Dixon and her training business. These testimonials came with pictures of dogs and their owners. So that’d felt more plausible.
I shucked my jacket, hung it up, and headed for the kitchen. A realization hit me right between the eyes.
Goddamnit.
Jesus.
I hadn’t paid for my fucking drink. I’d been running a tab because, after my beer, I’d planned on switching to ginger ale.
I closed my eyes. The last thing I wanted to do was drive the forty-five minutes back to Langley to pay ten bucks for a beer. Plus, a tip. I yanked out my phone, located the number for the bar, and dialed.
The phone rang for a long time before someone answered. “Hello.” A clipped female voice answered.
“Uh…is this…?” I scrambled to check the bar’s name.
“Yep, that’s us. How can I help you?” The woman sounded positively frazzled.
“I forgot to pay for my beer.”
“Tall, dark, motorcycle?”
“Uh…yeah…?”
“Finn paid your tab. Gotta go.” The line disconnected.
Fucking hell. That was almost worse than having to drive back to the bar.
Because I didn’t want to owe Finnegan anything.
I’d already snuck out of his bed without a word.
I’d already spent several months avoiding him at all costs.
Yeah, but you were sort of hoping to run into him tonight.
Long shot at best. He could’ve as likely have gone to Davie Street in downtown Vancouver.
Just because I happened to know tonight had been his first night off since his last four days of night shifts…
I yanked off my T-shirt. The pure white contrasted with my dark skin, and I wore it a little tight to show off my muscles.
Yes, I might be forty—and way too old for the twenty-six-year-old Finn—but I wasn’t going into middle age without a fight.
This building had decent gym equipment that I made good use of in the mornings before most of the world was awake.
I was of the early bird gets the worm persuasion. Tonight, I was out way past my bedtime.
Spring, thank God, was a night owl. Between the two of us, we kept Mission City news covered.
Only as I was removing my jeans did I realize my blinds were still up. Doubtful anyone could see in, but I wasn’t an exhibitionist. During the day, I kept the curtains open to get as much light as possible.
Tonight, I shut the blinds, and the light pollution lessened. I eyed my blackout curtains and decided to leave them open. Bad for sleep hygiene, but I needed a connection to the outside world.
After finishing stripping, I hopped into the shower. I bent my head so the hot water ran down the sides of my face as well as my back.
As if I could wipe tonight from my mind.
I never put out on the first date.
What did that mean? I rubbed my face. He’d put out the first time after my near miss with a joyriding teenager in his mother’s stolen minivan.
Had that been adrenaline or had he not seen it as a date?
Which was true—that fuck really hadn’t been a date.
One shag didn’t make a relationship. Especially when one party snuck out in the middle of the night without leaving a note.
No putting a rose smell on that shitty act.
I grabbed my vanilla body wash and coated myself. Like I could wipe away Finn’s scent from where it lingered in my mind where he’d pressed up against me. Old Spice? Light, for certain. So, soap? Or just that the scent had mostly worn off after a long day?
My skin tingled at the thought of him touching me—even if it’d been over my henley and jeans.
Fuck, I wanted him.
All of him.
Because the more I got to know him—through other people’s stories, admittedly—the more I liked.
Well, as long as he was the goddamn boy scout he appeared to be.
Earnest, helpful, generous, kind, and a bunch of other stuff.
No one had a negative word about him. He was, according to everyone, just a great guy.
Great guys are often hiding the biggest secrets.
Which was why I’d kept my distance. I just didn’t know. And I couldn’t risk getting involved with him as long as I didn’t have answers.
My cock stirred at the memory of brushing against him, but I ignored it. I needed sleep—not to unsatisfactorily jerk off to the long-distant memory of his beautiful ass.
Long-distant? Like, three months ago.
Or a lifetime—depending on one’s perspective.
After the water sluiced off the last of the body wash, I hopped out of the shower. My centimeter of hair took ten seconds to dry. I kept the buzz cut because otherwise the curls went everywhere. I didn’t mind the natural look for some guys. For me? It just didn’t work.
The mirror didn’t lie about my age, with the first white hairs in my beard.
Neatly trimmed to accentuate the shape of my face.
Or so my last barber had told me. Also easy to maintain.
I was not, however, going to trim now. Right at this moment, I was ready to drop in bed and crash. Then sleep for a month.
Yeah…but what if you’d met someone tonight? What if Finn invited you for a repeat?
Then likely I’d have perked up—both my brain and my cock. Because the idea of doing anything again with Finnegan was worthy of rousing. Cup of black coffee or a cola would’ve helped.
Instead, I crawled into bed naked, shut off the light, and let myself go.