“That would make sense, wouldn’t it?” I muse. I’m not drunk. Not even a little bit. I am, however, apparently very attracted to this random stranger. To a man.
It’s too dark to see the exact color of his eyes, even in our little pool of light. Right now they’re as dark and impenetrable as a cup of black coffee. I bet they aren’t, though. I bet his eyes are the prettiest thing about him.
“Do you want to go outside?” I ask, thinking it’ll be quieter and the lighting better.
“No,” he responds, in a way that sounds a little bit like “yes.”
“Just for a minute,” I clarify. “Maybe get some fresh air? It’s pretty crowded in here.” He stares at me for a few moments before nodding and turning away, so I follow him down the hall and out the back door. The moment I shut it behind us, Marcos’ shoulders sag. I put a hand on the center of his back and he flinches. I drop my arm. “Sorry.”
We stand there on the lawn, awkwardly silent. Marcos scuffs his feet, and turns in a slow circle. I watch him greedily. I can’t seem to do anything else.
“Are you here with anyone?” I ask, hoping the answer is no.
“No.”
I nod, a burn of excitement tingling through my chest. Alone is good. Alone means he can be here with me. I decide not to look too closely at that desire right now.
“I was going to head out, soon. I’ve got a full day of class on Thursdays and hockey practice afterward,” I tell him conversationally. His eyes snap to mine and narrow. “I’m here with my friend Micky. I promised him we wouldn’t stay for longer than an hour and a half, so we’ll have to leave pretty soon.”
“You play for the hockey team?”
“Yeah. You a hockey guy?” He nods, so I continue. “I started as a center, but this season Coach moved me to defense. I actually like it better. Didn’t think I would, but I do.”
Marcos’ dark eyes are fixed unblinking on my face. He doesn’t seem to be much of a talker. After a few moments helooks away, but I don’t. I take the opportunity tolook. He’s not a big guy—a few inches shorter than me, but with the compact, lightly muscled torso that indicates he’s not unfamiliar with a gym. His hips are narrow enough that he’d probably err closer to skinny if his body was left to its own devices.
“Do you, uh…” I trail off uncertainly. I want to ask him if he likes men, which is pretty laughable. Until fifteen minutes ago, I would have answered that question with a noformyself. Unsure what else to do, I pull out my phone to check the timer I set. It’s still counting down, so I text Micky to let him know how many minutes remain.
“I better go back inside,” Marcos says, and the look on his face is so dejected, one would think he’s being held here against his will.
“You don’t have to.”
“I do.” I wait. His eyes flick to mine and his jaw sets. “Some of my friends are in there, drunk or well on their way. I need to keep an eye on them.”
“Oh, you’re designated driver tonight, huh?” I ask and his mouth pinches together in a straight line as he shrugs. “Just stay out here a little longer. You can have a little fun and still be DD.”
Marcos looks like “fun” is a three-letter bad word his mom told him not to say, but he doesn’t leave the backyard and go back inside. He tucks his hands into his pockets and looks at me.
“Do you ever hook up with guys?” I ask him, because apparently any skills I have for picking up women don’t apply to men. That wasn’t exactly the smoothest way I could have broached the subject.
Marcos closes his eyes briefly, as though praying forpatience. I’m so used to seeing the expression on Coach Mackenzie’s face, it doesn’t even phase me.
“What?”
“Do you ever hook up with guys?” I repeat. Might as well commit, seeing as I’ve already fucked this entire thing up. I don’t even know what I’m doing—all I know is I’m having a hard time looking away from him. I’m not a stranger to wanting someone, and what I’m feeling right now is definitelywant. Why question it?
“Sure,” he answers, shrugging. Well, I’m in it now. Might as well shoot my shot.
“Do you want to?” I ask, and his gaze snaps to mine immediately. He stares hard enough for a hole to be burned through the center of my forehead, eyes narrowed and mouth turned down in a frown. He doesn’t look tempted by the offer. He looks mad.
“You’re drunk,” he mutters incredulously, repeating his earlier statement. I shake my head.
“No, I’m really not. I had two shots and a beer—most of which ended up on the floor—and I’ve been sweating those out for the past forty-five minutes. I’m not drunk,” I repeat. “You’re just…really pretty.”
He scowls harder, dark brows pulled together in a line. “Yeah, like your horse.”
The horse thing was a stupid-ass thing to say. Now he either thinks I’m into bestiality, or that I thinkhelooks like a horse. Either is bad, and both are wrong.
“No, I wasn’t saying…horses are really pretty, and I was trying to say that you are, too. It was meant to be a compliment.”
