CHAPTER 1
Jordan
“Ugh, for fuck’s sake!”
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I let out a frustrated huff. With one eye closed, my mouth keeps popping open and fogging up the glass, making it fucking impossible to apply my false lashes without fucking up my eyeliner. Usually, I can apply lashes in the dark, but I’m running late and starting to sweat my foundation off.
This is what happens when you decide at the last minute that a quick nut-and-bolt is just what you need the night before a job interview. You know, for good luck. Finding a hookup in this city is not to be left to chance, though. Thankfully, I have it down to a fine art: arriving at least an hour after the bar gets busy, so that a few drinks have been had and inhibitions have been lowered, but not enough drinks to where sloppiness has set in. Which means my hookup window is now quickly closing, so I need to hit the road.
Standing back, I blow out a breath of relief and check my reflection one last time. With my lucky lashes in place, I am good to go. Killer six-inch spiked Louboutins—check. Tight black jeans I had to promise my firstborn to Lady Gaga to get into—check. Royal blue cold shoulder crop top with strings wrapped around my bare torso that give off shibari rope vibes—check. Now, let’s go hunting.
I’m sitting in the backseat of an Uber on my way to Jacks Bar & Grill, the best queer-friendly bar in town, owned by husbands Matt Jack and Jack Bareal. I take the opportunity to search through my emails as the Uber navigates downtown traffic. Scrolling down the list, I spot it—the one from my best friend Pete about the interview he set up for me with his brother Drew’s law firm. On one hand I’m furious with him for going behind my back, but on the other… my bestie is the bestest bestie who does shit like that because he knows I need it and would never have asked his brother myself.
If this works out and I get the job at Drew’s firm, I can finally tell the asshole I currently work for to shove a cactus up his butt and swivel. William Capshaw is a wrinkled, festering ballsack of a man. I have no idea how I have managed to work with him for so long and not caught a charge, considering his snide homophobic remarks about my clothing and the smidgen of makeup I wear to work. Plus, his passive aggressive way of making sure I’m never made aware of company functions. The fact I’m not in an orange jumpsuit is clear testament to my self control. Part of me wants to call him out on his bullshit, point out his blatant discrimination, but what good would it do? What would I actually achieve from it other than a headache? I just want to get out of that toxic environment with my head held high.
I’ve heard nothing but good things about the firm Pete's brother is a partner in. The fact Drew is also queer helps settle my concerns. There is no way that Drew would work in a place that would allow homophobic comments, veiled or otherwise. This opportunity is my golden ticket out of the cesspit I’m stuck in at the moment. It would be an absolute bonus if my next boss provided some decent workplace eye candy, but I’m not even going to push my luck with that dream.
Walking into Jacks, it's absolutely packed to the rafters exactly as I expected. My timing is perfect. I can feel the bass from the EDM vibrating through my bones, amping up my adrenaline. I love the anticipation of a hookup as much as actually finding one sometimes. Weaving through the crowd of hot writhing bodies, I make my way to the bar. Being petite has its benefits. I spot a small space and slide right into it. My eyes close and I take a deep breath. That’s what I'm talking about. The strong smell of alcohol and faint scent of man fills the air. I don’t even mind that the bar is three people deep and the staff are rushed off their feet. I’m happy to wait in my stolen spot and take in the scene around me.
Otters and twinks and bears, oh my. The options are endless, and I am an equal opportunity lover, after all. When the opening beats ofRiverby Bishop Briggs reach my ears I quickly abandon my place at the bar. Some things are more important than alcohol, and this is my fucking jam. Sliding over towards the makeshift dance floor, I work my way to the center of it and close my eyes. My body starts to move to the music as I mouth the lyrics and live out my stripper fantasies.
I don’t have to wait long for company, because two guys are suddenly sandwiching me between them. The one in the front is smaller than me—well, smaller than me in these heels. He reminds me of Pete, except he has beautiful chocolate skin with a head full of thick black curls. He smells of spices and sin. The way he moves his lithe body to match mine has my cock hardening instantaneously. The one behind me feels bulkier and has an iron-clad grip on my narrow hips. I can’t see his face, but I can feel his intentions.
As fun as I’m sure these two guys would be, I'm not looking for the kind of evening they clearly have planned. Threesomes, while extremely hot, require time and space—neither of which I can offer tonight. Dancing never hurt anybody, though, so I let the music move through me, keeping our bodies close together, working up a sweat as we move as one.
After a second song and much dry humping, I decide that I need to exit stage left pronto. I don’t want to string these guys along. It's obvious they’re a couple by the way the man in front of me looks over my shoulder every so often, biting his lip as he thrusts against me so my ass pushes right into his boyfriend's hard cock. These are practiced moves, and I don’t want them to waste any more of their pheromones on me when they are hoping to pick up a third for tonight.
Leaning back, I press a kiss to one cheek, then lean forward and press a kiss to the other before pointing to the bar and waving them goodbye. I glance over my shoulder as I retreat. Their bodies move like magnets to each other. Watching them start to make out has the temperature in my pants going up a few notches. I’m now rethinking all of my life choices. Hopefully I’ll find them again when I have more time. Alas, I only came here tonight for a quick hookup—something to take the edge off the pressure I'm feeling for this interview tomorrow. I need to go into that law office with all the confidence of a man who got laid the night before.
Leaning my back against the bar, I wait for Jack to mix my mojito. My eyes scan the tables scattered around the room. I see groups of guys chatting animatedly, probably about their huge dicks. Girls knocking back shots and snapping pouty-faced selfies.Couples humping against the bare brick wall near the bathrooms. I love this place. It caters to everybody. A complete no-judgment zone. People can feel free to be whoever they want to be in here. Women can feel safe from the creeps that haunt the bigger bars and clubs in town. All people—men, women and everybody in between—can express themselves however they want. It’s incredible to watch. It’s why I always choose to come here. Not that I care what anybody thinks of my makeup and heels, but knowing I can come here and be instantly accepted without needing to put a few assholes in their place just makes life so much easier.
“Aren’t your feet hurting in those Louboutins?” a smooth, almost sinful voice asks. I hadn’t even noticed the man moving up beside me, and what a shame that was. Turning to fully assess him, my eyes run from head to toe. Clad in immaculately-fitted navy suit pants, crisp white shirt and matching navy tie, he has my undivided attention. The handsome stranger has a sharp jawline decorated with designer stubble. He’s taller than me, broader than me and with a wicked smirk that tells me he is not only enjoying my perusal of his body, but he is doing it right back. Meeting his storm-gray eyes, I flutter my lucky lashes. Ding ding ding—we have a winner, baby.
“Beauty is pain, handsome.” I wink and move closer, taking note of the woodsy scent of his cologne. My eyes roam over his salt and pepper hair—heavy on the salt—and wonder how much older he is, not that it matters. Equal opportunity lover, remember. Reaching out, I stroke one long acrylic extension down his chest, then over his exposed forearm. The elaborate ink encompassing his entire arm—from wrist to elbow and disappearing under his rolled-up sleeve—makes me pause. What a contrast that is to his button-up shirt and tie. It’s almost a shame that I’m only looking for a bathroom hookup tonight. I’d like to know where else he has tattoos.
“You certainly don’t need to hurt yourself to look beautiful, although the red bottoms are a nice touch.” His smile expands across his face, and fuck me—he hasdimples.
I need to expedite this mission immediately, and by ‘mission’, I mean ‘blowjob.’ Giving or receiving, I’m in. “You know, I have something else red that's a much better touch.”
Jack Bareal, the hot-as-fuck daddy owner, has been lurking in my periphery on the other side of the bar. In typical style, he chooses this very moment to set my drink down in front of me with a knowing smirk. "That'll be fifteen dollars."
I don’t break eye contact with Mr Sexy Stranger, and neither does he. Uh, uh. Not today, Satan. There will be no blocking of the cock tonight.
“Add it to my card,” my sexy stranger barks out, not so much with anger or annoyance, but perhaps impatience.
“Sure thing. You have fun tonight, guys.” Jack laughs as he walks away to serve other customers, leaving us to ourselves.
“Would you like to see what other red bottoms I have on?” I ask teasingly, praying that he picks up what I'm putting down here.
His voice takes on this gravelly tone like he chews rocks for fun; it definitely does things to my dick. I watch his nostrils flare as my eyes flick to his mouth and back again. I don’t miss the way his muscles momentarily tense up. It’s like he's having to physically restrain himself from grabbing my ass and ripping off my jeans. Fuck, this guy is so hot.
Reaching blindly for my mojito to wet my dry mouth, I’m caught off guard when he grabs my hand and pulls me so that our chests are touching and we’re practically sharing air. He presses one thick thigh between my legs, offering me the friction my aching cock needs. An involuntary moan slips from my throat and he growls in response.
“You keep teasing me, Lashes, and I will make this perfect ass permanently red.” He rotates his thick thigh, pressing it harder against my bulge, making my eyes cross.
“Don’t threaten me with a good time, Dimples,” I whisper, pushing up on the toe of my heels to mouth the words against his jaw. I want him to know that while I love his aggressiveness, I am no submissive kitten. I squeeze his bicep, then let gravity take my hand to his abs, groaning as I feel the hardness under his shirt. “Holy fuck, you are going to look so good on your knees for me, Dimples.” I look in the direction of the bathrooms, then back at him, and the heat in his eyes tells me he’s on board.
“Lead the way, Lashes.” He smacks my ass with a playful smirk, giving me a preview of what could be on the cards for tonight. I wink at him just to see the primal need in his eyes. Moments like this are exactly why I do not do relationships. If I was all coupled up, I would never know how hard a stranger can get me just with a look.
