Page 7 of Stray for You

None of that stuff happens until later, however, so I sit in the back of the room with my coffee and imagine the way Cam’s face flushed when he saw me strolling into that café of his. His dark eyes could have burned a hole through me. His lips pressed so tightly together they paled to several shades lighter than his face. A muscle along his jaw jerked from how hard he clenched his teeth.

It was kind of cute, if I’m being honest.

He would hate being called cute, but that only makes his reaction more adorable, of course. Besides, that banter in the café sent me back to happier days. It was like we were in college again, arguing in Albert’s basement before the start of our shift at the Boyfriend Café. We both worked there as servers, making tea for customers and chatting with them about their woes. Despite our extreme personality differences, weboth found success too. Some people wanted bright and sunny and charming, but plenty of people found Cam’s quiet nature calming.

I did too, though I never would have admitted it back then. I was too busy being the center of attention as much as possible. No wonder I annoyed him so much. I knew I should have stopped messing with him, even back then, but for some reason I just … can’t. The second I see him, I yearn for his attention at any cost, and the easiest way to get it is to make him angry.

It’s better than being ignored.

I survive the morning, then head to lunch with some of the other reps. Every restaurant near the convention center in downtown Seattle contains good-looking salespeople in smart suits and tight skirts. They’re beautiful, and I should probably be picking out my evening entertainment, but when one of the guys I’m eating lunch with laughs too hard at my jokes, I make no attempt to reel him in.

I’m thinking about someone else instead. I’m thinking about seeing him tonight. I’m thinking about the plans I made for this evening, plans that probably won’t get me laid, but excite me all the same.

The rest of the day passes in a similar blur to the morning. The conference has just begun, so people are settling in, finding their targets, figuring out where they fit in the hierarchy. I don’t mind hanging back and observing for now. My time will come. Besides, this evening is already booked.

“Hey, man, you hitting the bars tonight? A bunch of people are going out drinking,” the guy from lunch says. The hope in his eyes is clear, and any other day at any other conference, I would spring on that, but today I ignore it.

“I have plans tonight, actually,” I say.

“How do you have plans in Seattle? Aren’t you from the East Coast?”

“I get around,” I say with a wink. “There’s a bar I want to check out. Heard it’s the hot place to be. Anyone is welcome to join.”

It doesn’t hurt to have backup, especially if tonight leaves me riled up and without an outlet.

Lunch Guy (Zane, perhaps?) brightens, and pretty soon there’s a small group of us who plan to meet in the lobby of the Sheraton after we change out of our suits and freshen up. Alone in my room, I shower, blow drying my hair so it falls around my face in little drifts of blond. That one almost always works for me. Then I throw on jeans and a sleek black jacket over a charcoal gray shirt. Nice, slick, attractive, but not trying too hard at any of those things.

When I head down to the lobby, Zane, a red-haired woman and one other man are waiting for me.

“Where are we headed?” the woman asks.

“There’s an area around here called Capitol Hill,” I say. “Hear that’s where all the good bars are.”

“Isn’t that…” Zane says.

Considering the way he eyed me up during lunch, I’m surprised he doesn’t finish the thought.

“The gay neighborhood?” I provide. “Yeah. So what? That a problem?”

Zane coughs and covers his mouth. The other guy shrugs, and the red-haired woman laughs.

“Good,” I say. “Let me get us a car and we can get out of here.”

I order a rideshare, which appears in three minutes, anticipating the convention traffic heading out for the night. The car takes us up a steep hill and away from the convention center. As we travel, the road narrows and twists. How people out here stop on these treacherous little roads for lights and stuff baffles me. On top of that, it’s Wednesday night, and post-work foot traffic frequently crosses our path, forcing the driver to slam onher brakes more than once.

Eventually, she lets us out on the side of a busy street. I thank her before checking my map on my phone.

“This way,” I say, leading my odd group down the street. A left turn takes us onto a connecting street where half the businesses fly Pride flags even though it’s October. The flags are bright among the gray skies and prematurely encroaching night. Music thumps out of some of the buildings we pass. Laughter and conversation spill out of others as people catch a late meal. The whole place hums with life, with excitement, with vibrancy. By the time we reach the bar I have in mind, I’m vibrating from all the energy around me.

We head into a tight bar crowded with bodies. A Pride flag hangs on the wall alongside framed pictures of fake taxidermy. The walls scream in garish greens and reds, some of them striped like a candy shop. Gaudy chandeliers cast a weak, yellowy glow through the bar, and a couple arcade machines chirp in a back corner. People cluster around the bar on one side of the room, but I take my group to one of the tables. Luckily, we got here early enough to claim a good spot. The stage lies only a few tables up from us.

“Okay, this place is wild,” Zane says. “I need a drink. What do you guys want?”

Zane heads off to grab the first round while the rest of us admire the ostentatious décor.

“So, how’d you find this place?” the other guy, Marcus, asks, the sarcasm thick in his voice.

“Heard about it from a friend,” I say.

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