“You should know by now that I never doanythingwithanybodyI’m not interested in.”
Tucker
Ihadn’tplannedondrivingto Kenton, not consciously at least. On the contrary, I had had every intention of spending the rest of the evening holed up in my bedroom with noise-canceling headphones, catching up on the latest season ofCarnival Eats.An afternoon of sampling fair food had inspired me to figure out what other things could be deep fried.
And yet, here I was, parked two doors down from Mayfly, a good twenty minutes from my apartment.
So much for the Food Network.
I swapped out my sweat-soaked T-shirt for a blue, sleeveless tank in the trunk of my Outlander and combed some dry shampoo through my hair. Between workouts, hookups, and late-night hangs with the team, I had taken to keeping a well-stocked “go bag” in the SUV. Spare clothes, an extra pair of sneakers, snacks, toiletries—plenty to last me a week.
I lathered on some deodorant, tucked a strip of condoms into my pocket—for good luck—and made my way to the bar. The gym shorts from this afternoon’s yoga class would have to suffice, because there was no way I was throwing on pants in this heat. It was going on ninety-five degrees, and we were still a good hour or so from sunset.
This was only my first summer in Oregon—my second on the West Coast—and despite what my conservative grandmother thought, based solely on what she read on “theFacebook,” it wasn’t all that different from Maryland. One thing I knew to be true about both Portland and Ocean City was that when summer rolled around, people flooded the streets, flocking to parks, beaches, and restaurant patios until well after nine p.m., when the sun went down.
Music and laughter leaked through the open windows of the bar and onto the patio. I had been to Mayfly. More than once, in fact. While a few of my teammates had opted to buy property closer to the stadium—our team captain, Soren, had just closed on his house this week—most of us had chosen to stay in Portland, a mere forty minutes south of Rose City. Bennett and Diaz’s house was just around the corner. I had spent enough M&M nights—aka movies and margaritas—at their place to know that Mayfly was just around the corner.
Brock hadn’tdirectlyinvited me to his friend’s drag show, but I didn’t like the way we’d ended things at the fair. It was more than obvious that I had said or done something to make him uncomfortable, and that didn’t sit well with me. Maybe it was just the bullheaded Taurus in me, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight without setting things right.
If it led to us boning in the alley behind the bar, so be it.
I showed off my driver’s license to the gorgeous drag queen in leather guarding the door. The zipper of her bodysuit had been pulled low to expose her rich espresso skin.
“Holy shit,” she exclaimed, eyes bouncing between me and the plastic card in my hand. Her thick, spiderlike eyelashes bobbed wildly with every blink of her emerald eyes. “Tucker Fucker, is it really you?”
Huh, that’s a new one.
“Oh, it’s me,” I said, grinning sheepishly. “Johnathan Tucker. What’s your name, beautiful?”
“Tyra Spanks. I’m a huge fan.”
She snatched my outstretched hand in hers, cradling it to her ample bosom. “You’re on my fantasy team,” she added. “Matty Miller, too. Hells bells, did you bring him with you?”
“Sadly, it’s just me tonight.”
Her expression soured. I couldn’t blame her. Matty tended to win over the heart of just about anybody who met him, probably because he was so soft-spoken, a stark contrast to the rest of the team.
“I tell you what, if you hook a guy up with a table, I’ll be sure to put in a good word for you.”
Her eyes lit up with excitement. “High-top by the drink case?”
I did a quick scan of the room, starting at the front, where a tall queen with blonde curls that rivaled Dolly Parton’s called out numbers and letters. Blinding light from the disco ball overhead reflected off her pink, sequined dress, washing the space in a rosy hue. A dozen or so tables were littered throughout, along with a wooden bar that spanned the length of one wall. On the other one, a refrigerated drink case housed bottled beer, wine, and artisanal soda from regional breweries, wineries, and vendors.
Finally, my attention landed on the empty high-top across the room and, more specifically, the curly-haired sports reporter seated at the neighboring table.
Holy. Fuck.
Rapunzel hadfinallylet down his hair, and babygirl looked like Hozier and Chris Pine’s love child.
“Perfect.”
Tyra smiled. “Right this way, honey.”
Her heels clacked against the linoleum as she led me toward the other side of the room. I tried to still the pounding of my heart—and cock—as I followed. What the fuck was wrong with me? What was it about this guy that set me on edge? Maybe I was just horny. It had been a while since my last fuck, not that I was expecting tonight to end with wall-banging sex between Brock and me.
Hopeful, sure. Expectant, not so much.
There was the slim possibility that me showing up like this might piss him off. I had already inadvertently hurt him once today; the last thing I wanted was to do it again.
