“Barbeque nuts, obviously.”
“I’m going to choose to pretend you’re joking and also start buying my own bags of chips to keep in my room.” He wrinkles his nose and looks me up and down impatiently. “Seriously though, if you’re going to shower before we go to Crossing Swords, you’d better hurry your ass up. I’m out the door in ten minutes, with or without you.”
I groan. I forgot I agreed to go out tonight. Not that I couldn’t use a night out, but I’m already in chill mode. I scratch my balls then pull my hand out of my shorts. “I don’t know.”
“Dude, get your ass up and get in the shower.” He snatches the bag of chips out of my hand and points towards the bathroom.
“You’re not my real dad,” I joke flatly, lifting my arm so I can sniff my pit to check if a shower is actually necessary.
“Another one sure to make all the gays in Chicago drop their panties.” There’s a shutter sound from Fender’s phone as he takes another picture of me.
“Hey, you’re not really going to post those on M4M, are you?”
“Of course not. I’m going to upload them to Sweat’s Instagram.” I hop off the couch and he dances backward with all the grace years of boxing has given him, holding his phone behind his back where I won’t be able to take it from him without a fight. “Unless you go get ready,” he bargains.
“I’m going.” I hold my hands up in surrender. He didn’t need to blackmail me. I was going to drag my ass off the couch and go anyway. I already said I would, and I never break a promise. Besides, I could stand to get laid, if I’m being real about it.
I tug my shirt over my head, ball it up, and chuck it at the laundry basket on my way into the small bathroom. The pipes groan as I crank the shower on. The water heater in this building is probably older than I am, which means it usually takes at least three or four minutes to get above Polar Plunge temperatures.
While I wait for the water to heat up, I stick my head back out the bathroom door.
“Yo, Fend, do you know if there’s a rule against dating clients?”
He comes around the corner so fast I stumble back an inch. A big, toothy grin stretches across his face.
“Who do you want to date?”
“Oh… uh…” I scratch the back of my head and shuffle my feet. “No one in particular. I was just wondering.”
“Bullshit,” he says immediately. “Oh, it’s gotta be Reggie. His tattoos are so fucking lickable.” Fender gets a dreamy look on his face and leans against the doorframe. “Or Tim? Not a sexy name, but lordy can that man fill out a pair of shorts.” He fans himself, and I shake my head.
“No. I mean, yeah, they’re both hot, but that’s not…” I really shouldn’t have brought this up. Even if we’re allowed to date clients, I doubt I’m Percy’s type. He probably dates professors or doctors. My brother Shawn just got accepted into med school, I bet he’d be a lot more up Percy’s alley. Too bad Shawn is straight… allegedly anyway. I’ve always suspected he’s actually bi, in denial, and in love with his best friend, but that’s a can of worms for another day.
I frown and clench my fists. Just because I’m not some brainy dude with a fancy-ass college degree doesn’t mean I couldn’t treat him right. Not that I want to date Percy. I don’t even know him. It was just a passing thought. And this is why it’s dangerous to think at all.
Facing the icy water is better than listening to Fender’s questions, so I shed my shorts, chuck them into the hamper, and step into the shower. Not that it stops him. His voice is muffled by the sound of the water running and the shower curtain between us, but he keeps trying to guess who I might have a thing for. I could tell him to drop it again, but I’ve known him long enough to know that will never work.
I should have kept my big, dumb mouth shut.
CHAPTER FIVE
PERCY
There aredozens of queer bars within walking distance of our apartment, which was one of the main selling points when we were deciding on a place, but Juno picks Crossing Swords tonight for their “Theydies Night” special. And since I can plant my sore ass at the bar and drink on Juno’s tab anywhere, I’m not about to argue with them.
I’ve always found bars and clubs fascinating from an anthropological perspective. The varied forms of communication and in-group behaviors that can’t be seen in day-to-day life, the social organization of who interacts with who and how, the power dynamics—it all makes me itch to whip out a notebook and start jotting down observations. But I learned a long time ago that taking notes isn’t the best way to act like you fit in somewhere. Also, the tight jeans Juno squeezed me into had no pocket space to stash a notebook.
After we get drinks, Juno puts a hand on my shoulder and gives me a serious look.
“Will you promise to at leasttryto flirt with someone tonight?”
“I’ll see how I feel once I get a good buzz going,” I say blandly. “Now, go dance, find a willing victim to drag back to your lair for the night, and let me embrace my inner loner here at the bar.” I plop my ass down on the nearest stool, grimacing at the ache in my muscles again, and wave them off.
“Fine, but I’m not going to let you sit in the same stool all night long,” they warn.
“I won’t.” I’ll move around to different stools so I can get some different viewpoints for my people watching.
That appeases Juno enough that they take their drink and disappear onto the crowded dance floor. I’ve never seen the appeal of squeezing into a sea of writhing, sweaty bodies and gyrating to grating techno music, but everyone out there looks like they’re having the time of their lives. I stare at all of the wandering hands and grinding hips with interest and a hint of jealousy as I sip my drink.
