“I’m not saying anything remotely like that. Even without the titty bar, it’s not my scene. Not anymore.”
The conversation went round in circles, but eventually, Freddie necked his vodka, dropped a fifty on the bar—show off—and left. By then, the bar had quieted. On instinct, I searched out Sam. He was by the fire exit, sweeping the battered wooden floor. My gaze zeroed in on his long, lean legs encased in gunmetal denim, his elegant hands, and finally his dazzling grin.
He ambled over to me. “Dickhead gone home?”
“As if. He’s off out. Wanted me to go with him.”
“Didn’t fancy it?”
“What do you think?”
“That your mate is a bit of a twat, but you should probably get out more.”
“To a strip club by the river?”
Sam grimaced. “Okay. Maybe not. I stand by the twat comment, though.”
“He left you a forty-quid tip.”
“He’s still a prick.”
Frustration, laced with a heavy dose of guilt washed over me. “He can’t help acting up. When you’re young and surrounded by that lunacy, it’s hard to know any better.”
“He’s not that young.”
“Not by playing standards, maybe, but in real life he is. Why can’t you trust me when I say he’s a nice bloke underneath it all?”
Sam shrugged. “Because you’ve never told me why. You let him prance around in front of me like a peacock and expect me to just believe you that he’s something else entirely.”
“You think I’d lie to you?”
“No, I think you’re too nice for your own good.”
I laughed. Couldn’t help it. In the last six months, Sam had got to know me better than anyone else had in years, but fuck, he still had so much to learn. “I’m not nice.”
“You are. But don’t worry, I’ll never tell anyone.”
Sam
Micah sent me a soft grin across the breakfast bar and accepted the plate of bagels, smoked salmon, and soft scrambled eggs. “Thanks. You didn’t have to do that.”
He had no idea how untrue that statement was. When he’d first answered my ad for a flat-share and moved in, he’d spent days and days alone in his room. The only way I’d coaxed him out was with food, and six months into our roomie-hood, it was a habit I’d yet to break. “I was up anyway.”
Lies. All lies. But who the fuck cared if I’d jumped out of bed the moment I’d heard Micah limping out of his bedroom?
Not me.
I fixed my own plate and rounded the breakfast bar to claim my seat beside him. He was scrolling through his phone again. I nudged him. “You’re on that thing so much I’m starting to think you’ve got a Grindr account.”
Micah snorted. “A new Grindr account, you mean. You know what happened with the last one.”
Of course I did. Even without the left leg that dragged behind him when he walked, the whole world knew that a casual hook-up had sold him out to the tabloids, and the threat of exposure had driven him to an “incident” on the London Underground. I’d never understand why a career spent kicking a leather ball around a field was so important, but then working in the bar was the most exciting thing I’d ever done, so what did I know?
I found a smile from somewhere and pasted it onto my face. “Just because it didn’t pan out the first time doesn’t mean you’re doomed to a lifetime of gay bachelorhood. Whether you want to be or not, you’re out now—”
“I do want to be.”
“—so you might as well hook up. There must be a thousand blokes out there who’d want to be with you.”
