23. Miguel
MIGUEL
NOW
My jaw cracks when I yawn. Dozing off in a gay pub isn’t my finest moment, but I’ve been stood up.
Carmen’s friend with the crusty lip ring hasn’t shown his face, and I might order daiquiri to wake myself up and celebrate.
When someone I recognize walks through the door, looking downcast, I ditch the solo celebration, intent on making this a party.
As I slide into the unoccupied side of a booth, I let out a long, relieved moan. “I’ve officially retired from dating. How are things going on your end...” My lips stick together for a second too long before spitting out a guess. “…Preston?”
“You got it right.” An unconvincing smile lifts his lips before it vanishes.
Great. Apparently, this is a pity party. I should tell whoever is managing the playlist because the British rock music fails to match the mood.
I tap my thumbs on the table and scope out the place. Among all the battered wood and patinated brass, tin signs decorate the walls. One saying “Take the Piss” hangs near the restroom. Someone thinks they’re clever.
Taking another stab at being social with Preston, I ask, “Do you come here often?”
He twists a napkin in his fingers. “A couple of times a week. I live around the corner.”
I’m not good with moping people, and he’s the mopiest mope I’ve encountered in a while. He’d been cheery during our previous encounters, even when they went downhill. And I recall him leaving the second one in a good mood because the guy wearing the purple crop top was on his arm.
”How did it go with the cutie from speed dating?” I ask.
“We weren’t on the same page. And I deleted the app. I’ve realized dating isn’t for me either.” His dejected tone plucks at my rigid heartstrings.
I’m not sure what it is about Preston, but I want to see him happy. Since I’m not the best with comforting words, I’ll cheer him up with a small gift instead.
Stealing a paper napkin from the stack, I unfold it and press it flat. “Maybe the person for you isn’t on the apps. Have you considered joining a book club or a spin class?”
“My legs are too long for most stationary bikes.”
I quirk an eyebrow. “How tall are you?”
“Six foot six.”
“Damn. I bet you’re good at hanging pictures,” I say, reshaping the napkin.
“Uh, sure. As for books, I’m not much of a…” He trails off.
When I look up from my project, Preston’s cheeks are an alarming shade of scarlet.
A server carrying a foamy pint of beer appears at our table.
He’s a short, edgy looking fellow with winged eyeliner, tight leather pants, and a gold mesh top that pops against his tan skin.
White-blond hair drapes down one side of his face, reaching his chin.
The shaved side of his head features a lotus flower tattoo that starts behind an ear with many piercings and spreads across his scalp.
He slides the beer in front of Preston and speaks in a surprisingly soft, high voice. “Your usual.”
“Thanks, Zephyr.” Preston keeps his gaze trained on the table while conducting a taste test.
“What are you having?” Zephyr’s question is directed at me, but he’s ogling my flustered friend like he wants to lick the foam off his upper lip.
“I’m all good, thanks.” My answer drifts into the void.
The two of them are playing ping-pong with stolen glances, oblivious to what’s happening.
Do I smell an opportunity? Yes, I do. The air reeks of hormonal harmony.
And as Zephyr returns to the bar, I plan for another pit stop before leaving the pub.
I’ve never played Cupid, but this pairing seems like a marriage in the making.
“Zephyr seems interesting. Very pretty and petite, like your friend from speed dating.” Preston’s ears turn red, and I give him an incredulous look. “You clearly have a type, so why on earth did you go on a date with me?”
He wipes his mouth with a sleeve and sets the glass on the table.
“My therapist thought I should broaden my horizons. We’re working on my fear of rejection, and he thought using an app would level the playing field.
If a date never showed, at least my humiliation was private.
And if the guys weren’t my type, I had nothing to lose anyway. ”
I sit taller, intrigued. If kindred spirits exist, I may have found mine because Preston speaks my mental language. “Has therapy fixed you?”
“It doesn’t work that way. The point of therapy is to give you the tools to fix yourself.”
There’s that guilt again. This nice man has been working on his self-esteem, and he had to contend with my dismissive, snarky attitude. Of anyone, I should be more empathetic to insecure people.
Offering Preston my handmade gift, I say, “I’m sorry for rejecting you.”
“That was kind of the point of the exercise.” He holds the folded napkin in the air between us and squints at it. “It’s a triangle.”
My jaw gapes in disbelief. “Sir. That is an isosceles triangle.”
Preston lets out a full belly laugh. I don’t even care that he tosses my hard work aside. He’s happier, and the mood shift is palpable.
“I could’ve been nicer about rejecting you, especially when I know how scary it is to put yourself out there.” The triangle ends up in my hands again, and I tear the edges. “May I ask what happens in your therapy sessions?”
“Talking, mostly. The work you put in between appointments makes the biggest difference.”
“A big enough difference to withstand public scrutiny on a global scale?”
He perks up, eyebrows raised. “Your profile mentioned instructional sewing videos. Did one of them go viral?”
I really should’ve taken a closer look at the details Carmen put in my dating profile. My videos aren’t instructional. They’re inspirational, and she has no appreciation for the difference in meaning.
“Not yet, but it’s bound to happen one day,” I say. Ditching the frayed napkin, I tuck my hands between my knees and try not to rock from side to side. “Can your therapist prescribe a magic pill to eliminate my anxiety about going viral?”
Preston glances at the bar before answering, his deep voice dropping to an even deeper hush. “No, but my psychiatrist can.”
A therapist and a psychiatrist? The thought of opening up to strangers, even licensed professionals whose job it is to listen without judgment, sounds terrifying. But there’s no harm in doing some research.
While Preston tracks his future husband’s movements, I dig my phone out of my pocket and say, “We should exchange numbers.”
His gaze slides to me and narrows. “Why now?” Either he’s not as clueless as I thought or my attempt at using a friendlier tone has failed.
“I know a beauty expert who could spruce up your confidence if you’d like a free consultation, not that you need it. But you never know when the man of your dreams could ask you on a date.”
If my instincts are correct, Preston could be spending Valentine’s Day with a lotus flower. Tapping on the screen, I navigate to my contacts and create a new one.
“Or we could hang out and ask each other personal questions. I hear that’s something new friends like to do.”
“Is that something you like to do?” he asks.
I lift a shoulder while typing P-Man as the contact name. “Guess we’ll find out.”
Saturday, February 11th
“They were basically making love with their eyeballs, and neither of them noticed. I had to act.” I pour coffee into a mug and add one teaspoon of cream, no sugar.
“You would’ve been proud of me, Graham. I played the innocent but meddlesome bystander so well, and now Preston has a date with a lotus flower. ”
Graham’s shoulders bounce when he laughs from his spot on my sofa. At least he’s not pouty like when he knocked on the door at sunrise. He tried to surprise me with a visit last night, but his flight kept getting delayed. And we only have a few hours until he leaves for the airport again.
“I hope everything works out for your friend,” he says.
I arrange two store-bought blueberry muffins on a plate and join him in the living room, handing him the mug.
He eyes me over the rim while blowing on the hot coffee, and the hypnotizing amber in his gaze lures me in.
I set the plate on the coffee table and straddle his lap, sliding my palms along his soft cotton tee while he fiddles with the middle button on my silk pajama shirt.
“I’m shocked the scalp tattoo passed your litmus test,” he says.
“None of that mattered. I could feel the energy between them.” I run my fingers through his hair, tipping his head back. “It’s all about finding that undeniable connection.”
The mug thumps on the side table, then his ravenous mouth is on mine. His large hands are everywhere, each possessive grip and light caress a reminder of the pleasure only he can give me. I roll my hips and grind our dicks together. We’re rock hard in an instant.
As we part for air, his whispered plea brushes my lips. “Touch me. I’m begging you.”
With the flick of a button and tug of a zipper, I take his dick in hand.
A strong shudder racks his body, and he whimpers.
I seal our lips together, swallowing the sound.
My tongue lashes out, licking every moan from his mouth as I stroke his cock.
I want him so bad, my need is a physical ache and a wet patch on my briefs.
“I won’t last long,” he says, as if reading my thoughts.
Saliva pools in my cheeks at the prospect of making him come quickly.
I pause long enough to peel off his T-shirt and spit on his shaft.
With the added slickness, I increase the speed and intensity, causing his breaths to become louder and more ragged.
While I prefer Graham’s gentle touch, he gets off from my heavier handling.
“You want it rougher than this,” I taunt.
“Yes.”
“Only from me?” Tightening my grip, I tug harder.
He groans, eyes rolling back. “Only…fuck…yes…only you.”
“Still a good boy.”
Graham whimpers again at the same time my phone rings. My hand stops. Our eyes meet. None of our friends are early risers like us.
“Ignore it,” he says, grabbing the back of my neck to pull me into another kiss.