FIVE TRISTAN
FIVE
TRISTAN
Since Christmas day, Myles and I have run into each other in the building a few times and said hello, exchanged pleasantries.
But earlier today, he insisted he's taking me out to dinner tonight to say thank you.
Honestly? There's really nothing to thank me for.
I was just doing what every right-thinking human would do under the circumstances, although in this instance, I was actually trained to do what I did.
I would never think of saying no to Myles, although I know this isn't a date. For one thing, he's straight, ruler straight. The most stereotypical meat and potato heterosexual there is. He might be surprised to discover I'm not as perfectly straight as he is.
I don't date, anyway. I'm the hookup guy and have no intentions of settling down, much less to have a family.
Never felt I needed to label my sexuality or officially "come out" to anyone.
I don't belong to any community. I’ve belonged to a community of one for most of my life, until I joined the fire service.
Hot is hot, whether man, woman or any other gender.
My best friend, Steph, probably has her suspicions about my sexuality, which is why she keeps inviting me to places I'm pretty sure are LGBTQ-friendly.
My parents were pretty liberal, and even though I lost them in my early teens, I felt no internalized pressure to be a man's man. But I know what I look like and between that and being a firefighter, I'm able to blend in with the straights by default. I’m guessing that’s probably why Myles brought me to a sports bar.
But I still don't give two fucks about sports.
Myles opens the door to Sports Haven Tavern, the blast of cheering and the aroma of garlic and tomato sauce wafting out. “After you.”
I hesitate. “You know, I’m not really a fan of Italian food.”
Myles grins, eyes glinting in the dim light that’s spilling from the restaurant. “They have something for everyone here. I promise you’ll enjoy it.”
Damn his persistence. And that smile. “Fine.”
The clink of glasses and hum of conversation hit me as we walk into the sports bar, the bass of some pop song thumping through the air. My stomach twists, and I tell myself it's the scent of garlic bread. Nothing more.
Still, I'm hyper aware of Myles at my side. His cologne, woodsy and crisp. The breadth of his shoulders in that navy henley.
Get a grip. Myles is about as straight as they come.
We find a booth in the corner, away from most of the crowd. Myles slides in across from me, scanning the room with a tight smile. His knee jiggles under the table, a nervous tic I've never seen from him before.
"Everything okay?" I ask.
"Hmm? Oh, yeah. Fine." He scrubs a hand over his jaw, his gaze darting away.
I frown. "If you've changed your mind about dinner, we can go."
"What? No, I'm—I'm glad we came out." He meets my eyes again, a more natural smile now easing across his face. "It's been a while since I've been to a place like this. Brings back memories, you know?"
Memories of his wife, no doubt. Guilt twists in my gut at the attraction and jealousy simmering under my skin. What is wrong with me?
A waiter hurries over. “The usual for you, Mr. Madden?”
“Yes, please, Jon,” Myles says, “And whatever my friend wants.” Myles gestures at me.
I scan the menu. “Chicken parmesan.”
Jon nods and leaves.
The silence left in the waiter’s wake is a bit uncomfortable.
Anything to ignore the traitorous want unfurling inside me like the green vines etched into the bar's wooden beams.
We're just friends.
Aren't we?
Who am I kidding? We’re passing acquaintances—nothing more, nothing less.
My gaze sweeps around the bar, fully aware that Myles's warm gaze is cataloguing my reaction to the place.
The walls are adorned with a hodgepodge of sports memorabilia, team flags, jerseys, and vintage posters.
Neon signs flicker overhead, casting a warm, amber glow over the place.
A row of high stools lines the long wooden bar where a bartender in a faded Yankees cap deftly pours drinks.
On one side, a group of rowdy friends in jerseys huddles around a game of pool, the clinking of balls punctuating their animated conversation.
A giant flat-screen TV broadcasts what looks like college basketball, drawing the collective attention of the rest of the crowd.
Laughter and chatter ripple through the air, merging into a comforting buzz.
Myles makes a steeple with his hands on the table. "So, what do you think?"
"I like it. It's clean, and I appreciate the open kitchen concept; I can literally see what's happening in the kitchen if I wanna."
The air is thick with the scent of sizzling burgers, mingling with the sharp tang of beer.
Myles's grin is mischievous as he nudges his head toward the flatscreen TV and asks, "Interested in watching the game?"
No, Myles, but I think I'm interested in watching you.
"Sure, but like I told Phoenix, I know next to nothing about sports." And I give zero fucks about them.
But Myles, bless his heart, decides to give me a crash course during halftime. "I can run through some of the rules with you." He begins, leaning in, "You see, there are two teams, and they're trying to get the ball into the other team's hoop."
I furrow my brow like I'm trying to solve a Rubik's cube. "Hoop? You mean that round thing?"
Myles nods patiently, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "Yeah, that round thing. It's called a basket."
I feign confusion, tilting my head. "Basket? As in a place to store my laundry?"
Myles chuckles, probably thinking he's got a rookie on his hands. "No, Tristan, not that kind of basket. It's where they score points."
I squint at the screen. "Points? You mean like when you win at Scrabble?"
Myles stares at me, his patience slowly morphing into suspicion. "Uh, no. Points like in goals or touchdowns, but in basketball."
I nod like it's all starting to make sense. "Ah, I get it now. So, you kick the ball into the basket to score a home run, right?"
Myles finally catches on, his eyes narrowing. "Are you fugging with me?"
“Say what now? Fugging?”
His cheeks color prettily. “Yes, fugging. A time or ten, I’ve managed athletes who’ve lacked self-control on and off the field, and some of them came close to ruining their careers because of it.
I had to do a lot of damage control. And then one day I decided that instead of being preachy, I should model good behavior.
” He uses air quotes on the word “good.” “So I cleaned up my act and stopped cursing like a sailor. My hope was they’d see if you make a concerted effort, you can maintain your composure and restraint in language and behavior, even in the most explosive of situations.
I wanted them to see if I could manage it with the major stressors in my life—namely, them—they could do it too.
Over time it worked.” Myles chuckles. “But mostly on me.”
I can't help but grin, and Myles smiles back—that slow, teasing smile that makes my heart flutter. Yep, he's got me… and I’m loving every moment of it.
“That’s fugging fantastic, man.” My heart somersaults when he burst out in laughter.
I like teasing Myles and driving him fucking crazy, but I like the sound of his laughter more.
"And yeah,” I say, answering his question, “I'm just fucking with you.
" Wouldn't mind actually fucking you either, Myles.
I'm trying to ignore the weird flutter of attraction I feel for him.
The man is fucking hot, like a phoenix rising from the ashes kinda hot.
When I bulldozed my way into his apartment on Christmas, I was aware he was attractive.
But, sitting across from him at this moment?
Goddamn! I haven't even begun to absorb the beauty that is Myles.
Though he's not as tall as I am—maybe about 6-feet—he has a body that attracts men and women alike.
The women are simply, and quite boldly, eye-fucking him.
But to be fair, a few guys are eye-fucking him too—me included.
The thing that's so endearing about Myles is he's completely oblivious to how appealing he fucking is.
The stubble of his three-day beard with an even mix of silver and gray, doesn't diminish his attractiveness in any way.
Gorgeous whiskey-colored eyes complete the sexy package.
I've seen lots of incredibly attractive people—fucked many of them, too—but Myles is just sheer perfection. There’s no other way to say it; he is the epitome of masculine beauty.
I need to fucking dial down my reaction to him.
And put on my best red-blooded American male mask, the one I can don without even really thinking about it.
When you’ve bounced around as much as I have, it becomes second nature to resist developing your own persona because all that does is make it harder to blend in.
But I'm surprised at how out of place Myles seems to feel here. He obviously comes here a lot, and he’s said hello to a few people here and there.
But he looks awkward in his own skin at the same time…
well, except when he's speaking directly to me. I have no idea what’s making him nervous, but I push forward and try to engage him in conversation.
I'm itching to learn more about him, and my curiosity gets the best of me.
"Alright, Myles, here's a simple one for you. If you had to choose three words people most commonly use to describe you, what would they be?"
He glances at me, a thoughtful expression flickering across his face. "Hmm, I'd like to think I'm considered honest, reliable, and hardworking."
I nod approvingly. "Those are some solid traits. You're painting a picture of a stand-up guy."
Myles chuckles, his laughter carrying a hint of modesty. "Well, what about you?” he asks, the corner of his lips curving up. “If you had to choose three words to describe yourself, what would they be?"