*
I manage to slip out of the hospital before Jade has a chance to play twenty questions. Part of me is dying to talk about this situation I’ve fallen into, but that would require an explanation of my fascination with a gay man whom I’ve just recently met. That’s an answer I don’t have yet.
Steven is another “answer” I don’t have. I’m sure “pleased” would not be the word to describe how he’d feel about me going to dinner with Trick, but can a straight guy really be jealous of a gay guy?
I finger through my long red waves that have been pulled back into a ponytail all day. Trick has seen my naked face so there’s no need to fuss over makeup. I’m sure I’d do it all wrong in his eyes anyway. Faded skinny jeans, black boots, and a white off-the-shoulder top say casual … friendly.
“Seriously?” I mumble to myself, seeing him pull up on his motorcycle. This is Chicago; he has to have something other than a motorcycle.
As I open the door, he pulls off his helmet and gets off his motorcycle. I squeeze my legs together and second guess dinner being such a great idea. How stupid am I to torture myself like this?
Fuck. Me. Now!
There it is and … Oh. My. God! It’s even better than I imagined. I’m drowning in my own saliva as I attempt to keep myself from drooling—dark chaotic hair, intense eyes, the always present thick, dark stubble, and now a million—actually gazillion—dollar smile with teeth. He has teeth! Pretty. White. Teeth.
“I’ll drive.” I motion back toward my door.
He shakes his head and crooks a finger at me. Trick is grand master of the sexy come-hither look. How do gay guys do it better than straight guys?
“Are you going to try to kill me again?”
“Again?” He cants his head to the side.
I slip my purse strap over my head as he shrugs off his black jacket and puts it on me. “Yes, again. And don’t be coy; you’re not that good at it.”
He repeats the hair twist from last night and slips his helmet on my head.
“If we took my car we’d both be safe.”
He hops on. “What fun would that be?”
The moment I get my leg over, he palms my ass, again, and scoots me forward. Trick is dangerous in every way imaginable. Yet, I ignore all reason and just hold on. As crazy as it may sound, I’d rather be holding Trick with layers of clothing between us knowing it will never be more, than naked in bed with Steven and a future of possibilities.
This is so messed up!
*
Trick takes the helmet and jacket then leads me into the restaurant with long strides that leave me jogging to catch up. What’s the big hurry?
“Have you ever had Moroccan?” He looks down at me as we wait to be seated.
“Not in Chicago.”
“Where have you had it?”
“Morocco.”
He grabs my hand and pulls me toward the door. “Let’s go.”
“What?” I follow him back outside.
Releasing my hand, he keeps walking. “Maybe you should pick the restaurant.” He calls back with exasperation weighting his words.
“Why? I don’t understand.”
“Just … let’s go.”
I fist my hands on my hips, refusing to move until he turns to look at me. “If this is about you gauging my rich-bitch whore status by the stamps in my passport, then you have just confirmed my earlier assessment—you are an asshole.”
Trick turns, eyes giving away nothing as they stare intently at me like I’m a code to be deciphered. Then his hardened features soften a fraction. “I’m paying.”
“Damn right you are,” I reply as he brushes past me. I’m not certain, but I think the corners of his lips curl up a millimeter or two.
He looks at me with his million-thoughts-zero-words, completely unreadable expression. “Table for two, something more private please,” he says to the maître d’.
Trick pulls out my chair for me, maybe as a peace offering.
“Trying to be a gentleman?”
A smirk. “I can assure you, I’m no gentleman.”
I knew this, but his confirmation has a biting chill to it.
“Welcome. Can I take your drink order?” our waiter asks.
Trick looks at me.
“I’ll have a glass of Riesling, please.”
“And for you, sir?”
“Water’s fine.”
The waiter nods then moves to the next table.
“I was an addict.”
This feels like a test, so I choose subtlety. With a minute raise of my shoulders, my eyes shift from my menu to him. “I didn’t ask.”
“You wanted to.” He taps the rim of his water glass.
I glance back at my menu. “Alcohol?”
“Everything.”
I meet his gaze again, and he dares me to flinch with his unyielding look.
“How long have you been clean and sober?”
“Nine years.”
The waiter sets down my glass and pours the Riesling. “Shall I give you a few more minutes?”
We both nod.
I take a sip of my wine. “I used to chew my fingernails. My nana tried everything to make me quit—gloves, nasty tasting polish. I think she even considered shock therapy.”