“Just…just leave me alone, Scott,” I beg, trembling from my perch on the closed toilet seat. I’ll worry about the ick-factor of that later. My poor jeans…hopefully they’ll survive this ordeal. “Go—go find some other twink to maul.”
“I didn’t fuckingmaulyou!” He sounds even more enraged at my choice of words, and I shake a little harder, now concerned that I might actually pee my pants if he manages to bust down the door.My poor, poor jeans…“We met on Grindr, for fuck’s sake. It’s a hook-up app! I thought you were down to fuck.”
I can feel my face flaming. Part of it is embarrassment at freaking out earlier, and part of it is from the tequila shots I’d had before that. I’m drunk enough that the world is blurry around me, but not so drunk that I’m ready to lose my V-card in the gross bathrooms here in The Fruitbowl. Especially not tosome closeted wannabe football star, whose idea of a good time was to shove me in here and demand a blow job.
“W-well I’m not,” I reply with as much strength as I can muster, praying that Sylvia gets here soon. I texted her twenty minutes ago and I honestly don’t think I can face Scott again. Especially not while he’s so worked up. He’s much bigger and stronger than me. I know my odds of being able to hold my own if he gets physical are slim to none.
“You’re causing a scene,” he barks.
“No,” a new, smooth voice cuts in, raised above the thundering bass from the club’s music outside the doors, “I believeyou’recausing a scene.”
“Fuck off, old man,” Scott demands.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that. I’m here to make sure the person you’re harassing gets home safely.”
Wait…what? Where’s Syl?
Still unwilling to unlock the stall door, I force myself to my wobbly feet and climb on top of the toilet seat, pushing to my tiptoes so I can peer over the grimy top of the stall. Squinting, I try to focus my vision, seeing dark hair streaked with gray and the shoulders of an expensive-looking suit jacket.
Has the club sent a bouncer in for me? It doesn’t seem like that classy an establishment. In fact, the guy who checked my ID (because, yeah, even though I’m twenty-six, I look eighteen), was wearing scuffed jeans, a dirty black T-shirt, and a jacket that has seen better days. No way does this man work here.
My self-announced rescuer turns his head slightly, and then seems to catch sight of me. His eyes widen, and I wobble on my perch.
“Cody?!” he asks in bewilderment.
Oh shit! I stumble in my surprise, falling and hitting the walls of the stall on my way down. At least they prevent me fromdropping to the gross, sticky floor.What the hell is Dad’s best friend doing here?
Chapter Three
Ihaven’t seen Cody Barratt since his high school graduation, which I only attended because Mike would have killed me otherwise. After all, I had missed enough of his only child’s milestone moments, which sort of proved my point on why I politely redirected Mike’s attempts to name me as the kid’s godfather when he’d been born. We were teenagers at the time (Mike’s prom night had ended more happily than mine), and I knew back then that I wasn’t mature enough for that level of responsibility or commitment.
So, it is a bit of a shock to see my best friend’s adult son peeking over the top of the bathroom stall, and I wince at the clattering and banging when he slips out of sight as I watch the plywood frame of his hidey-hole shake.
For a brief moment, I curse myself for not having his number in my phone. It never struck me as something I should have, seeing as we’ve never been close. He’s Mike’s son, not someone I could see myself having a reason to contact out of the blue. But why would he text me for help?
That’s not what’s important right now.
“Cody?” I call out in question, concerned. “Are you okay?”
“I’m not hurt,” he replies after a beat, and I suddenly remember the actual reason I’m here at all.
Rounding on the mountainous younger man I’d found trying to break his way into Cody’s stall, I glare at him. “What the fuck did you do to him?”
The guy makes a show of wrapping one of his giant paws around the other, which he’s shaped into a fist, and cracks his knuckles. “Fuck off and leave us alone, Gramps. This hasn’t got anything to do with you.”
“Just go, Scott!” Cody yells from behind the toilet door. “B-before I call the cops.”
Scott scoffs and rolls his eyes. “For what?”
“F-for sexual a-assault,” Cody stammers, sounding closer to the door, and I see red.
“Forwhat?!”
The beefcake just snorts. “I didn’t fucking—”
“You pushed me in here demanding a blow job!” The door suddenly swings open, and I get my first proper look at my best friend’s son, dressed in skin-tight jeans and a mesh top that leaves very little to the imagination. His eyes are red and puffy, and he reeks of alcohol, but his words aren’t anywhere near as slurred as his text messages seemed to be.
I suppose what he’s gone through —is still going through— has been a sobering experience.
