5. Wylie #2
The band, Guns ‘N Roses, had been a favorite of his mom’s, and Wylie had fond memories of the two of them driving over the Indian Rocks bridge on weekends, headed toward Clearwater Beach with the windows down, blasting GNR and singing along at the top of their lungs.
Slash’s memorable opening guitar riff always brought him right back there to the passenger seat of his mom’s fire-engine red Pontiac Firebird, with the smell of sunscreen on his skin and the taste of seaspray on his lips.
His mom’s smile, her off-key singing, and the way she’d gesture with her hands when she got excited, usually while holding a lit cigarette.
The way her Jersey accent became more pronounced when she was telling off a driver who’d cut her off in traffic.
Wylie definitely got his attitude from his mother.
If there were tears in his eyes at the opening notes of the song, they were purely sentimental ones.
To do the song justice, Wylie had to mimic Axl Rose’s iconic hip shimmy while singing, and if he’d had any inhibitions to begin with, the liquor had taken care of the rest. He was just starting to belt out the first chorus when Diego and Martin entered the bar.
Wylie spotted him from across the room as if the man were haloed in a beacon of light, the sailor to be lured to his shore.
Wylie practically leered at Diego, past tipsy and just as brave, and Diego offered him a reserved nod in return.
Wylie still didn’t know the man’s sexual orientation or if he was out, but he hadn’t done much to dissuade his blatant flirting and public come-ons.
It also didn’t much matter to Wylie that they were in a roomful of people.
He had a literal stage and a kick-ass song.
Hopefully he had the sex appeal to pull it off.
He could almost feel his mother, his guardian angel, hyping him up.
Rather than temper his personality, she’d always encouraged Wylie to be louder, more expressive, more authentically himself.
She’d cackled at his antics and quite honestly, probably should have disciplined him more, but she’d been eighteen when she’d had him, a kid herself.
They’d grown up together. He hadn’t even needed to come out to her, because he talked openly about all the dudes he thought were hot.
She did too! They had the kind of bond that could only develop between a single mother and her only son.
Did he sometimes wish for a dad who gave a shit?
Sure, but even then, Wylie knew how lucky he was.
But right now, he had a man to seduce, so he shed a tear for his mom, and during the bridge of the song he really let loose, making his voice all gravely and low.
There was a 50-50 chance he was embarrassing the shit out of himself, but the vodka gave no fucks, and Diego’s gaze didn’t stray from him once–not to glance at his phone or greet their coworkers, he just kept his eyes steadily focused on Wylie with a smirk that said, Can you believe this guy?
When the song reached its climax, Wylie performed a few rockstar hops across the stage, and then, holding the microphone to his lips like he was kissing a lover, he rasped out the final refrain, singing it as if they were alone in the otherwise crowded bar.
He was met with a round of applause, to which he bowed deeply, a little dizzy but ever the performer, and received a hearty backslap from Cool Breeze, the DeeJay who knew Wylie as a regular.
Amped up on the promise of sex and bittersweet with nostalgia, he climbed off stage and pulled Diego in for a slightly sweaty hug, then took an even greater risk and kissed him on the cheek.
Diego still smelled like smoked meat from the pit, but underneath that was a whiff of faded cologne and an earthy, sweet musk that was unique to the man himself.
Wylie took in an eager lungful, starving for more.
Diego didn’t pull away or even scowl, just let his own hand linger on the small of Wylie’s back.
Fuck yes.
“Quite the performance. And you said you were a self-actualized Gemini?” Diego asked playfully.
Wylie used the ambient noise of the bar as an excuse to lean in closer. “Yeah, but I’m also a theater kid who craves attention. Did it turn you on?”
Diego only stared back at him, eyes smoldering, jaw tense as if cut from stone.
Oh yeah, we are definitely gonna fuck. “What did you just say?” Diego asked, eyes wide.
Shit, did he say that out loud? Thankfully the bar was crowded and the next singer was already on stage belting out “Dancing on My Own” by Robyn.
“I said I’m drunk as fuck,” Wylie answered.
Diego must have known it was bullshit, but there was still a smile on his face.
Wylie led him over to where the rest of their crew was huddled around a high top with an assortment of bottles and drinks and half-eaten food.
There were hugs and backslaps aplenty from their coworkers, the crowd already loose and friendly.
Wylie made introductions to the rest–a few of his classmates from college and friends from high school.
Diego was a little stiff but nodded politely while maintaining his personal space.
Wylie wondered briefly if it looked like they were together.
He hoped so. He wanted to manifest that shit.
Diego was fucking fine and sweet and so very sensible.
He’d probably be a good influence and temper Wylie’s impulsivity.
And Diego remembered all the random shit he said and picked up on the little things that others didn’t, because he wasn’t self-absorbed like most people Wylie knew. Definitely boyfriend material.
But where was Hannah? He needed a second opinion. Wylie glanced around, but she was nowhere in sight.
“Anybody seen Hannah?” he asked the group.
Emma pointed to the back of the bar where Hannah and Brian appeared to be in the middle of a heated argument. Hannah was angry, arms crossed, tits out, mouth set in a firm line while Brian gestured with his hands, probably berating her for something so inconsequential it was actually insane.
“Oh, fuck no. Not today, Satan,” Wylie said as he went charging over there.
No way was Fuckface going to ruin his or Hannah’s night.
Closer, Wylie saw that Hannah was near tears.
Her lower lip wobbled, meaning that any minute now, she’d gently dab at her lower eyelids before the tears could fall and mess up her makeup.
Rather than confront Fuckface directly, he interrupted their argument, blocking out the controlling asshole completely, and said to Hannah, “Hey, babes, want to get a drink with me?”
“Fuck off, Wylie. We’re in the middle of a conversation,” Brian said and attempted to shove Wylie out of the way.
But Wylie was locked in protector mode, and Brian would have to go through him to get to Hannah. He spun around and glared at the guy, wishing looks could kill because he’d fucking murder this asshole. “I wasn’t talking to you, shithead.”
“The fuck did you just say to me?”
“You heard me,” Wylie snapped. Brian crowded him out, bumping his chest against his in an attempt to intimidate him, but Wylie held firm.
“Don’t waste your breath, Wy,” Hannah said, trying to pull him away, but Wylie was already at a ten, and he fucking hated Brian MacPherson–hated everything about him, chief among them, how he treated Hannah like she was disposable when he was the one who was unworthy of her.
Kayla too. The man didn’t deserve to have either of them in his life, and deep down, he knew it.
So what if the guy had thirty pounds on him and had been an all-state wrestler in high school while Wylie had been the lead in Pirates of Penzance.
He’d had a growth spurt since then, and this asshole had it coming.
Brian chest-bumped him again, harder this time, and Wylie shoved him back full force with both hands, causing the man to stumble backward.
Brian regained his balance while Wylie raised both his fists, preparing to knock the shit outta him.
Brian lunged and missed, giving Wylie an opening.
Fueled by hatred and adrenaline, he was ready to smash the stupid nose on this asshole’s face, when a massive body came between them and forced Wylie backward.
Diego, with shoulders so wide that it was impossible to go around him.
“Enough,” Diego bellowed.
“The fuck?” Brian snarled. “Diego? What are you doing here?”
“Trying to enjoy myself, so how about you chill out and take a walk?” Diego sounded calm, but the threat was clear. Wylie peered over Diego’s shoulder, ready to back him up if Brian tried anything.
Brian’s menacing gaze shifted between them, and he said to Diego with a nasty sneer, “What, did prison turn you into a faggot or something?”