CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck! Oh, fuckity-fuck!
Piers felt like he’d been smacked upside the head when he spotted the man from his dreams working his way across the floor to the bar. A quick save spared the tequila bottle he held from crashing to the floor.
No matter how many times he looked, then closed his eyes and searched his memories, Piers couldn’t find any differences between his dream man and the one he’d met tonight.
So many questions to ask. How could he say,“I saw you in my dreams,”without it sounding like a bad pick-up line? His heart pounded every time the stranger came near.
But was the man really a stranger if Piers had known him in dreams for years?
Wycke or Wicked. He’d certainly looked Wicked. He’d wanted Piers too. How long since Piers had shared the night with another? Not just a quick fumble, then out the door, but an entire night.
Have mercy. What would that sultry voice sound like when Wycke groaned out Piers’ name in the throes of passion? A far too detailed image came to mind: Wycke’s head thrown back in ecstasy, eyes closed, crying out his pleasure.
Several times during the night, Piers rolled what-ifs around in his head. What if he’d actually danced with Wycke instead of everyone else? What if he’d agreed to one night? Then again, Wicked said he’d wanted dinner. To get to know Piers.
Not the first time Piers heard the“get to know you”line as a means to a quick fuck. Would Wicked be any different? What did he mean about not being himself at home? Not being out at home and going out of town to get his itches scratched?
Poor guy. He’d be far from the only closeted gay man in the club tonight. Where had he come from? Why did he appear in Piers’ dreams? Or maybe his dream guy shared similar traits with the real deal.
But that was ridiculous. Someone he’d met in dreams didn’t suddenly show up. Besides, the group home counselor told him he’d created his dream boy, later a man, as a coping mechanism against losing his uncle and not having many permanent people in his life, kinda like an imaginary friend.
Nonsense. Maybe Piers merely convinced himself this was his dream guy. However, how many men under thirty had white hair, a particular silver-fox journalist notwithstanding?
Maybe he’d seen Wicked, or whatever his name was, somewhere before a long time ago and created the image while he slept. Yeah, a perfectly logical explanation of why the guy seemed so familiar.
Only, those dreams went back years.
The moment had passed—no going back. Stupid. Piers could at least have gotten a phone number. Taking the number didn’t obligate him to call. Nothing wrong with getting a cup of coffee. Now, Piers must put might-have-beens out of his mind and worry about getting Jess home safely.
His shift finally ended. It took an act worthy of a contortionist to wrangle Jess into her puffy coat. The next twenty minutes wouldn’t be pleasant. Despite his coat, the cold grabbed Piers like a fist when he herded Jess outside.
He blew out a breath, the warm air creating mist before his face. January. Cold but no snow. Thank the ancestors for small favors. Thank the ancestors. Something Uncle Lee used to say, and Piers’ coworkers gave him grief over. It just seemed the right thing to say, sometimes.
Arm around Jess, he made his way from the club. Neon lights flicked off one by one, darkening the street. The lights went out the night Uncle Lee died. But no. Street lights illuminated their way, and a car passed by, headlights momentarily blinding him.
Jess sagged more with each step. They needed a place to stop a minute before starting for home again.
The “Open” sign flashed in the window of the quaint little coffee shop he’d noticed while moving in, which sat midway between the club and the apartment. Logical, this close to the club district. Many partiers must stop in for a caffeine fix before going home.
Piers opened the door, clinging to Jess. Her slick coat nearly caused her to slide out of his arms a time or two.He parked her at a table, helped her out of her coat, and approached the counter. A young woman with braces watched his progress. “What can I get ya?”
“Two black coffees, no sugar.” He glanced back at Jess, her head slowly drifting toward the table. “On second thought, give me three.”
The woman grinned. “Three post-clubbing specials, coming up.”
While she prepared the drinks, Piers perused the shop. A group of what appeared to be college kids sat at two joined tables, and two couples sat in a corner. Then, he spotted a guy hovering over Jess. Oh, hell no!
He stalked to the table. Couldn’t the asshole see Jess was drunk? Or maybe he did see. He wouldn’t be the first to try to take advantage of someone in a defenseless moment. “Now, wait a damned minute!”
Jess giggled, eyes somewhat unfocused. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch, big boy.” She told the man, “It’s just my overprotective roommate. Helluva bark, no bite.” Confusion passed over her face. “Or is it the other way around?”
Piers scowled.
The guy held out his hand. “I just came to check on her. She was listing to one side.”
Jess proved his point, on a slow-moving trajectory toward the floor. The guy straightened her with a hand on her shoulder, yanking his hand back when Piers moved to shove him out of the way.
