They backed away to the corner of the room and yanked on their panties and bra. Curtis tossed the condom into a nearby wastebasket and dressed as slowly as he’d undressed, his gaze fixed on Sal’s in a way that made them want to throw a boot at his head.
“That was super good,” Sal repeated. “I might go get a drink. You want one?”
“Yeah, gimme a sec and I’ll come?—”
“I’ll go and come back,” they interrupted. “Is that okay?”
Curtis tilted his head to the side. “You tryna run away, babe?”
Yes.
“No!”
He flashed them a grin. “Well, in case you do, I’d like to see you again. Is a date out of the question?”
Sal wouldn’t have been more surprised if he’d offered to take them to hell. “I… You want to go on a date with me?”
“Fuck, yeah.”
Their vision swam. “I… I don’t know if that’s such a hot idea, my guy.”
“Because of Byron?”
Sal frowned. “Are you two still friends?”
“Kinda. Not really. But you know we work together, yeah?”
All the air seemed to vanish from the mirrored room. “Huh?”
Curtis looked as alarmed as Sal felt. “I thought you knew? I thought I said… I didn’t say?”
He hadn’t. But Sal was still the silliest non-binary fuckbag on the planet, because the answer to ‘What does Curtis Ingram do for a job?’ was so obvious, a kid could have called it. His big hands, his muscles, his height. He wasn’t a personal trainer. He worked with Byron because?—
“You still play AFL. That’s your job. You’re a footy player.”
“Um,” he looked around the room. “Yeah?”
“You work with Byron. So, Byron’s your coach. Like your assistant coach, but still your coach. Because you play for the Sharks.”
“Ah.” Curtis scrubbed his hand through his hair. “Yeah?”
The mess Sal had felt coming from the second they’d locked eyes on this dude had officially arrived. What was Byron going to say if he found out his little sister had not only fucked one of his old mates, but one of his players? A dude as straight as the day was long. “I need to go,” they told Curtis. “I can’t be here.”
“Okay,” he said, but he started walking toward them with his hands up, like it was a hostage negotiation. “Can I just… can I message you on Instagram?”
“Legally? Sure. Morally?—”
“I really like you, Sal. I think we might have something here. Do you?”
And as much as Sal wanted to deny it, they couldn’t, because the smell of him, all sweat, and cologne, and a trace of their own pussy, stalled their brain. “I do, but we can’t…”
“Okay,” Curtis said again. And then he grabbed their shoulders and kissed them on the lips. The hard press of his mouth made Sal ache in a way that was more offensive than him playing AFL.
“Sorry,” he muttered when they broke apart. “You’re just so fuckin’ pretty.”
Sal’s face went hotter than Satan’s ass-crack. “That’s okay.”
“Really?”
