About the way he looks when he's concentrating on making drinks, his tongue poking out slightly between his lips. About how he bosses everyone around and somehow gets away with it. About his laugh—this unguarded, genuine sound that borders on maniacal
About the kiss.
Fuck.
I press my forehead against the cool tile, water streaming down my back.
The kiss that was supposed to be nothing. A stupid dare from a bird. Something we'd laugh about later and forget.
Except I can't forget it.
I've tried. I've tried so fucking hard.
But I keep thinking about the way his lips felt against mine. Soft. Warm. The way he tasted. Like mint gum and something sweet.
The way I got hard.
From kissing a guy.
Hell.
I grab the shampoo, squirting way too much into my palm. Whatever. I work it through my hair, scrubbing too hard, like I can wash away the confusion along with the sweat.
What the fuck am I supposed to do about all this?
Am I into guys now? How? Since when?
I rinse my hair, watching soap suds swirl down the drain, and try to remember the last time I was actually attracted to a woman.
There was... Jessica? No, Jennifer. The girl I dated sophomore year of college. That was good. I think. I mean, we had sex. It was fine. She dumped me because I spent too much time at the rink, which was fair.
And then there was... fuck, what was her name? The one I met at that charity gala last year. Blonde. Tall. Smiled a lot. We went on three dates. I kissed her goodnight after the second one and felt absolutely nothing.
Huh.
I turn off the water and stand there dripping for a minute, processing.
When was the last time I actually wanted someone?
The towel rack is right there, but it feels a million miles away. I force myself to move, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around my waist.
The mirror's fogged up. I wipe a hand across it, revealing my reflection in streaks.
I look tired. There are dark circles under my eyes. And I need to shave.
I look like a guy who's having a sexuality crisis at twenty-six because a compact-sized bartender with a smart mouth and zero sense of self-preservation kissed him in front of fifty people.
"Get it together," I tell my reflection.
My reflection doesn't respond, which is probably for the best.
I brush my teeth, floss because my dentist guilt-trips me about it, and finally head to my bedroom.
My phone's on the nightstand, charging. I should check it. Make sure there's no team emergencies or last-minute schedule changes.
But the bed looks so fucking good.
I collapse onto it face-first, towel still wrapped around my waist, and just lie there for a minute. Maybe five minutes. Time is meaningless.
