Chapter 11 Dave
I didn’t say no. Why didn’t I say no? I can’t do anything that might jeopardize my work gig. It’s the key to everything, right? But with each passing day, this argument seems less persuasive. I wonder if this screenwriting bootcamp is really the ticket to my future. And maybe I don’t have to avoid my attraction to Kris. It all feels sort of silly now. I’m a fucking failure anyway. Why can’t I enjoy myself?
Admitting this to myself feels like some kind of breakthrough, like admitting I was gay or that I didn’t want to be a doctor. My stomach feels fluttery as I walk back to the set, and I can’t quite bring myself to look at Kris.
It’s taken me years to unravel the armor of Dirty Dave and the high achieving med student I tried to be after I left him behind. Without those layers, what am I left with? Just Dave Schwartz. A man still looking for an identity to cling to. Screenwriter. Barista. Anything besides someone who doesn’t know who he is or what to do with himself. That’s the man Kris is taking to bed tonight. Mr. Doesn’t Know What He’s Doing.
I don’t think Kris cares. I think he just likes me. Which is great, but my feelings are veering dangerously beyond the friendship zone. I like him. I really, really like him. And that, more than anything, scares me.
I lean down to grab the boom pole and accidentally catch Kris looking at me. He winks and I fumble the pole and accidentally bonk my nose on the mic.
“You okay there, boss?” Kris says, giving my shoulder a squeeze.
Heat radiates through me from this simple touch. I want to grab him or run away before I embarrass myself.
“I’m fine!” I exhale.
“You’re acting like a blushing virgin,” he cracks.
“Screw you.” I retort.
“Prove me wrong,” he whispers and settles behind the sound mixer.
The next few hours pass quickly, with us working more than waiting. Through it all, I feel Kris’ eyes burning into me. And maybe my eyes have been burning right back. By the end of the day, his usual amused smile is gone. Now he looks like a caged tiger waiting for someone to open the lock.
Would that make me the keyholder or the tamer? I don’t know. I do know that he’s given me the power to decide what happens next. I hold his gaze and walk over to him. There are no teasing remarks or smirks to be found. I lean down and whisper in his ear.
“Come to my place at 8, Skipper. You remember where it is, right?”
He sucks in a breath and answers, “Yep.”
“Don’t be late.” I turn and head for the door before I lose my nerve.
“I wouldn’t dream of it, boss.” His voice trails after me, the dark melody of it curling through my body.
The next hour passes in a haze as I race home and take a shower. My heart is thumping, and I feel like I might pass out. Turning over a new leaf or whatever sure takes it out of you. I’m not sure whether to run a mile or relax on the couch as I wait for Kris to arrive.
I’m thinking about Kris’ mouth. His eyes that were boring into me all day. His abs that I’ve only glimpsed, but in a few hours, I’ll be able to touch. I wonder what his cock looks like. Are his legs hairy? Fuuuuuuck.
Water’s dripping from my hair onto my t-shirt, but I don’t have the focus to mess with it now. I pad out of my bedroom and stop. There’s no way I can stomach eating anything, so I grab some green juice from the fridge and flop on the couch. What time is it? Fuck. It’s only 6:30. Why did I say 8? Because I wasn’t thinking. I wanted time to prepare. Now, time is my enemy. The next hour and half yawns out ahead of me like a great chasm.
What if we’re not compatible in bed? What if all this build up fizzles when we actually try to do something together? I’ve had it happen before. I guess then we could just continue being “friends” and coworkers, and that would be that.
I pull up his hookup profile again. He’s a top. Non-smoker, no drugs. Testing up to date. Looking for bottoms, age 25+. No blushing virgins then.
Kris’ words echo back in my mind. He was teasing me; I know it. But I hate that he sensed my nerves, that he can read me so well. It’s like he holds all the cards now and it’s infuriating, and also kind of hot, and I don’t know how I’m going to get through the rest of the evening. I have got to STOP all this spinning. Distraction. I need a distraction.
I grab my headphones off the coffee table and pull up a screenwriting podcast. This is the perfect antidote to pre-sex nerves. Something dry and theoretical and not threatening to rock my world in the least. The podcaster’s voice fills my ears. It’s blissfully, mercifully, not sexy at all and I lie back for his discussion on unreliable narrators. Perfect. Lay your wisdom on me, Mr. Podcaster, and give me peace before I shatter into a million pieces.