Page 7 of The Contract

Tristan

It’s another Friday night at Lush, and I haven’t seen Dante since he cornered me in the cellar last weekend. He told me I’d figure it out, but I haven’t. Except that, yeah, apparently I’m attracted to him.

I’ve had almost a week to come to terms with the idea that I might be … what, bi? Gay? It doesn’t bother me, but I’m still confused. What am I supposed to do about it?

I don’t even know how to date women. I sure as hell don’t know how to date men. Do I even want to? Do I want to have sex with men?

I watched some gay porn as a kind of test. It got me hard. I started stroking myself. But I had to turn off the screen so I could play out a different scenario in my mind.

I pictured the cellar. I pictured Dante reaching into my pants to grip my cock. I imagined it was his hand stroking me instead of my own. I didn’t imagine him fucking me because, quite frankly, that is way too far outside of my experience to imagine. But I came pretty fucking hard thinking about him jerking me off.

Shit, I can’t think about that right now. I have a dirty martini to deliver, and I don’t want to go walking through Lush with a hard-on. Especially with my boss here.

Not that Rafael would be likely to notice me. He’s playing the piano. I don’t know enough about music to be sure, but I think it’s some kind of jazz take on something classical. It’s fucking awesome.

Here’s what I don’t get: why am I not attracted to him? Objectively speaking, Rafael is extremely attractive. He looks like, I don’t know, an underwear model or something. Everything about him is sexy, from his wavy dark hair to his teasing smile to the way he moves like everything’s a dance. He’s flashy too. Tonight, he’s wearing black leather pants and a dark red corset vest over a blood red button down.

Maybe my reaction to Dante was a one-time thing. Well, two times. Three, I guess, if you count me jerking off.

And he was such an asshole! Cornering me like that? What a dick move.

Then he vanished.

It was a long goddamn night after that.

And he didn’t come in on Wednesday or Thursday, our other open days. I’m actually kind of pissed off.

I know that’s dumb. Not only is his behavior a huge red flag, we’re not a thing. And I hated how dominant he was!

What made him think he could summon me with a look, or corner me, or do … whatever he did to my ear?

My dick had started chubbing as soon as I got over my shock in the cellar, but when he had his mouth at my ear, I got so fucking hard I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what I wanted. It was like he took over my body.

I guess it was just a game for him, one he apparently lost interest in. He’s already forgotten me. Moved on. Such an asshole.

Fuck. I’m in the wrong part of the room. The dirty martini goes to the blonde woman with the strapless dress. A sharp turn would be obvious, so I continue on my circuit like it was deliberate, but Rafael’s blue-gray eyes still flick up from the piano. I guess he’s paying more attention than it looks like.

I somehow recover my cool and deliver the martini with the expected hauteur.

I’m just congratulating myself on getting my shit together when, fuck, fuck, fuck, he’s here. How the hell does he do that? Is he a ninja? He’s in his favored banquette like he teleported into it when I wasn’t looking. He has one arm stretched out along the back of it.

It doesn’t even occur to me to play it cool and return to the bar like I didn’t notice him. I try to maintain an air of sophistication, but I do head straight for his table.

Tonight he’s wearing a white shirt under his black waistcoat. He looks sharp as hell. I had forgotten some details of his face. He’s got high cheekbones and a great jawline. He’s leaner than I remembered. I think my impression of him was so much one of physical dominance that in my mind he became taller and bulkier than he actually is. Not that he isn’t built—heis—but he’s not a tank. He’s … perfect.

“There’s no red open,” I tell him.

His head tilts at my sharpness. The corner of his mouth tugs.

“You’re angry.” He practically purrs it, like it pleases him.

“We can open something. It’s not a big deal.”

“Did you figure it out?” he asks.

I can feel my nostrils flaring. If I thought that I’d be soothed by him acknowledging what happened last weekend, I was wrong. I’m even more pissed than I was earlier. He twisted me up and vanished for six fucking days.

“I certainly didn’t figureyouout.” I say it sharply, meaning it as an accusation, but somehow it feels more like an admission.

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