"It's what people call me."
He smiled at that, like I'd said something clever. "Can I buy you a drink, Red?"
He bought me two. I bought him one back. We talked about nothing because the music was too loud for anything real, and that was fine. I didn't want real. I wanted his hand on my arm and his eyes on my mouth and the way he leaned in close to hear me, close enough that I could smell his cologne, something expensive that I couldn't name.
We ended up on the dance floor. His hands found my hips and pulled me in, and I let him because it was easier than thinking. The bass shook through my ribs and the lights smeared at the edges and for a little while I was just a body pressed against another body, nobody's son and nobody's caretaker, just a guy in a bar letting a stranger grind against him in the dark.
His mouth found my ear. "You want to get out of here?"
I wanted to stay in this warm, dark place where nothing was complicated and nobody needed anything from me. But I also wanted what he was offering, or at least I wanted to want it, which was close enough.
"Bathroom," I said.
He took my hand and pulled me toward the back hallway.
The stall was cramped, and the lock was busted, so I had to hold the door shut with one hand while he pressed me against the wall. He kissed me slow at first, careful, like he was waiting for permission.
I bit his lip hard enough to make him grunt.
"Harder," I said against his mouth.
He tried. He got his hands on my hips and shoved me back against the tile, and his grip was firm enough that I'd probably have bruises tomorrow. But there was still something tentativein the way he touched me, like he was afraid of hurting me, like he thought I might break.
I didn't want to be handled like something fragile. I spent my whole life being careful. Careful with my dad, careful with my words, careful with everything I did and said so that nobody would ever find out the truth about me. I wanted someone who'd just take what they wanted without asking, without worrying about whether I could handle it.
I turned around and braced my hands on the wall. "Come on."
He fumbled with a condom, with his belt, with the angle, until I reached back and helped him line up. Then he pushed inside me.
He set a steady rhythm, and his hands stayed on my hips, and it felt good, the stretch and the pressure and the way my brain finally went quiet for a few seconds.
But his touch was still too gentle. He kept kissing my shoulder, my neck, the spot behind my ear, soft little kisses that were probably meant to be sweet. I didn't want sweet.
I closed my eyes and let my brain go somewhere else, to the figure skater from that morning and the way he'd looked at me like I was dirt on his ice. I could still hear that cold voice saying you're on my ice, like he owned the whole rink, like he owned everything and I was just something in his way.
I wondered what his hands would feel like. They wouldn't be gentle. They wouldn't be careful. He'd looked at me and clocked my hip in about two seconds, filing my weakness away. He'd probably fuck the same way he skated, all that terrifying control, knowing exactly what he was doing every second.
I thought about making him lose that control, about what it would take to crack that composure and make him want something badly enough that he stopped being careful. I thought about him shoving me against the wall, not tentatively like Nate, but like he meant it, like he'd decided I was worth the effort andhe was going to take me apart piece by piece until I forgot my own name.
My brain gave me his voice, low and cold and right against my ear, telling me to hold still, telling me he wasn't done with me yet.
I came with my forehead pressed against the tile and my teeth sunk into my own arm to keep from making too much noise.
Nate finished a minute later. He pulled out carefully, tied off the condom, and wrapped it in toilet paper before dropping it in the trash, which was considerate of him. He was a considerate guy.
"That was fun," he said, fixing his belt. "You want to grab another drink?"
"I should head out." I pulled up my jeans and buckled them, not looking at him. "Early morning."
"Sure." He didn't sound hurt, which was good. This was what it was. We both knew the rules. "Can I get your number?"
I gave him a fake one, seven digits I made up on the spot, and he typed it into his phone without checking. He'd figure it out eventually when his texts didn't go through. Maybe he'd be pissed. Maybe he'd just shrug and move on to the next guy. Either way, I wouldn't be here to see it.
I washed my hands in the sink and made the mistake of looking in the mirror. My hair was a mess, and my cheeks were flushed, and I had a red mark on my neck where Nate had gotten a little enthusiastic. I looked like exactly what I was: a guy who'd just gotten fucked in a bathroom stall by a stranger and was about to drive forty minutes home pretending it meant something.
The figure skater's face floated up in my mind, those cheekbones and those dark eyes that had looked right through me like I wasn't even there.
He was beautiful. The kind of beautiful that belonged on magazine covers, not in a shitty rink in New Mexico at five in the morning.
