I suppose I shouldn’t be all that surprised the gay bar didn’t scare Michaels off. He is thelove is lovetype, and he’s friends with Nebiolo, who is clearly an ally…or more.
Well, if the gay bar itself didn’t do it, Alfonso will. It’s all fun and games, even for straight boys who believelove is love,until they’re actually hit on. Alf slides a beer over to Surfer Boy—who is still all smiles. His fingers linger on Michaels’s. But that pretty smile doesn’t slip. Alf leans forward and whispers something. Michaels throws his head back and laughs. And the look Alf rakes over him is downright hungry. I scowl. What the literal fuck?
I stomp over. Surfer Boy is eating up the attention. Tossing his hair back, flashing his dimples. I should have known better. I should have known this man couldn’t care lesswhois giving him attention; as long as he’s the center of it, he’s happy. And that makes it all worse. Because he’s the kind of guy who leads other men on just to drop theI’m straightcard later, leaving you with nothing but disappointment and blue balls.
That’s the only reason I let out a growl when I sit down next to him at the bar. It has nothing to do with the green-eyed monster taking up residence in my gut. Because that would be absurd.
Alfonso’s violet gaze snaps to mine, and it’s awfully knowing. Those violet contacts pop against his dark hair that’s currently tied up in a messy bun. I glare at him, andhe laughs before disappearing, then quickly reappears with my usual—a double IPA,Sip of Sunshineto be exact.
Michaels turns to me and beams. I swear it's like rays of light reflecting back at me. I glance between my beer and his smile. His lips. He’s a sip of sunshine I could get behind. My groin tightens. I ignore it. The reaction is just…science. A Pavlovian response. Body is in the place it goes to hook up. Gorgeous guy is in front of me. Body responds. That’s all it is.
I think I’m regretting my choice of bringing him here.
“So, let’s get to know each other, bestie. What’s your favorite color?”
“What’s my favorite color? What are we, in middle school?”
“I mean, considering we’ve just been put in time out by the skipper, I’d say, yeah, yeah, we are. Maybe not even that.”
I turn away from him and take a swig of beer to hide my smile. Tou-fucking-ché. The Pretty Boy has a point. I let out a dramatic sigh. “Fine. I relent. Blue. My favorite color is blue.”
Michaels’s eyebrows twist, and he looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Irelent? Just how old are you? Are you from the 1800s or some shit?”
The expression melts off my face, and I stare flatly at him. “Twenty-six.” Two weeks ago. Not that I celebrated. Birthdays…are still hard for me. “I’m, what, two years older than you?”
“Huh. That’s all?” He studies me. “It must be all the frowning. You should smile more, keeps you young. And pretty. Like me.” He winks.
“I thought it just made you an idiot,” I deadpan.
His eyes crinkle as he laughs, those blue irises dancing.Like whatever just started up in my stomach. It’s all fluttery and swirly, and I really don’t fucking like it. I grab my beer and wash it away with the cool, crisp IPA.
I push away from the bar. “Let’s play some billiards.”
I need to do something. I need something to focus on. That isn’t a man with a beaming smile and pretty blue eyes. I’m pretty sure it’s dangerous to look at him for too long. Can’t you go blind from looking at the sun?
Michaels stands, a deep chuckle rumbling from him. “There you go again. Billiards? Just call it pool, Pebs.”
There are three pool tables, and we grab the one against the far-right wall that’s free. We each take a solid and do a lag to decide who breaks. Mine lands closest to the headrail, and I shoot Michaels a smirk.
He sends a cheeky one right back. I don’t understand how he can be so fresh with something as simple as a smile.
“Care to make things interesting? Let’s throw some stakes in the mix.” His blue irises glow with mischief. “Whoever’s better at handling a stick names his prize.” He winks.
I roll my eyes. “Sure. And let me guess. You have a plethora of sex pool jokes at the ready.”
He leans on his cue stick. “Of course. It’s a game where you use sticks to hit balls into holes. How can anyonenotmake sex jokes?”
I lean my hip against the table and cross my arms. “I’m not sure how you’re having sex, but I’m not familiar with any kind where you’re stickingballsinto holes. Let alone using your stick to do so.”
His eyes dance back at me as he sets up the table. “Clearly, you’re not doing it right.”
My lips twitch, despite my best efforts.
Then he adds, “I personally love having my balls sucked on. So balls in holes seems right to me.”
I choke. And quickly push off the table and line up to break. I discreetly adjust myself because my dick heardballs sucked onand, well, can you blame the thing for perking up? The loud crack of the cue ball hitting the triangle echoes around us, followed by a chaos of clacks and thuds. I sink two solids. Not a bad start.
“Two at once. Didn’t know you had it in you, Stone.”
