Page 23 of Stray for You

“Myaurais fine,” I say.

This is far from the first time River has diagnosed my aura. Usually he proclaims me “black with orange undertones.” I suppose that’s a bad thing, but I wouldn’t know. He’s never declared me “yellow” before.

River shakes his head at me. “Something happened. You’re never yellow, but today it’s like the sun trying to break through stormclouds. Some day you’re going to let it out, man, and everyone will see how creative and kind you are under that cloud you hide yourself behind.”

I’m not going to get out of this by arguing with him about thevalidity of aura colors, so I hold back a grimace and shrug at him instead.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” I offer.

“I hope you do,” River says. “Namaste.”

With that, he finally wanders off to set up for his class. I would breathe a sigh of relief, but for some reason River’s prognosis sticks with me today. What if he’s right? Not literally, of course, but what if he’s sensing what I’ve been worrying about? What if somethinghaschanged with me? What if giving Julian a chance even temporarily is a sign of some deeper malady?

I shouldn’t have slept with him, but if I was going to do it, I at least should have put some distance between us afterward. Staying the night and texting with him today is too … too familiar. And sure, Julianisfamiliar, I’ve known him for half my life, but everything was simpler when I kept him at arm’s length. Now I know how his lips taste, how softly his sighs of pleasure can brush against my neck, what his cock feels like in my hand. That’s information I never should have learned.

A pang of guilt nearly doubles me over. I lean against the coffee bar and ignore my buzzing phone while I attempt to catch my breath.

Last night felt good. Really good. This morning felt good. But as my everyday life intrudes on those moments of temporary madness, I can’t help wondering how colossal a mistake I’ve made. Julian messed with my life enough when I lived in New Jersey. I should never have given him a chance to do it again three thousand miles and five years away.

Chapter Twelve

Julian

IT HAS BEEN TWO full days since I’ve seen Cameron. Not that I’m counting. Monday arrives with the bleak news that I’m going to be stuck in the convention center listening to lectures all day instead of somehow luring Cameron back to my hotel. We’ve been texting all weekend, which is a minor miracle in my book, but I’ve tip toed around asking to see him again. Though, at this point, what do I really have to lose? I fly out on Wednesday afternoon. I have two nights left.

An elbow to my side jolts me from my thoughts. Jessica, the tech company rep and my current best lead, leans close, her cherry red lips nearly against my ear when she says, “We’re all going out for drinks after this. Join us?”

She’s holding out her phone. I glance down, catch the name and address of some sports bar kind of restaurant a couple blocks away. Crazily, I want to say no. I riffle through my brain for an excuse, but this is literally what I flew three thousand miles for. I’m supposed to smile and go out for drinks and flirt and secure some sort of handshake agreement that makes my bosses a bunch of money and boosts the company’s stock price half a percentage point.

I nod, using the ongoing lecture as an excuse not to speak my answer aloud. Jessica seems placated. She leans away so we can pretend to listen to a speaker talking about ethics in contract negotiations — as though anyone here gives a shit about ethics.They stuck a bunch of beautiful people in suits so we could flirt our way into multi-million dollar contracts; ethics has nothing to do with it.

Normally, it’d be a weird sort of thrill for me. I know the steps to this dance better than anyone. But today I look down at my phone, hoping against hope I’ll have a text from Cameron.

I don’t, and for the rest of the lecture I have no choice but to pretend to listen. A couple times, Jessica bumps her shoulder against mine and smirks at something the speaker says that could be construed to be vaguely suggestive. I slap on the smile she expects and wonder why the hell I’m not trying to sleep with the gorgeous and eager woman beside me, but the answer is obvious.

I shake off the thought. Things will go back to normal when I return to the East Coast. I mean, they have to go back to normal, right? I can’t pine after Cameron from so far away. We have to return to our silent stalemate and forget about each other.

That might be simple for him, but I’m beginning to fear it won’t be quite so easy for me.

The lecture ends, and I have no choice but to follow Jessica out of the convention center. We chat as we follow the flow of foot traffic tangling on Seattle’s downtown streets. Cars bump along in traffic. Buskers play music on street corners, instrument cases open before them. I throw in a couple bucks as we pass a man playing a violin, but the way his hands move along the neck remind me instantly of Cameron with his guitar.

I shiver and keep following Jessica. Noise spills from the open doors of the sports bar she leads me to. A table of people in suits like mine wave at us when we enter. They already have drinks in front of them as they cluster around a chest high round table and shout over the music blasting through the place. Baseball plays on the televisions while arcade games clamor in the back of the establishment.

I want to run instantly.

What is happening to me? This isn’t me. I’m the guy who sets up these gatherings. I’m the guy who thrives in social settings. I’m the guy who makes everyone in the room fall in love with him with little more than a wink. Yet here I am fading into the background, losing the thread of the conversation, wilting against the edge of the table like a flower without water.

I escape to the bar with the excuse of needing a drink. I suppose it’s not really an excuse when I genuinely need some sort of liquor to boost me through this experience. Jessica, the only other person without a beverage, follows me. She stands so close our shoulders touch as we flag down the bartender and order wacky slushy concoctions.

“I haven’t had a boozy slushy since college,” she says.

“Me neither, but it sounds fun,” I say.

She smiles over at me, and some part of my brain manages to register that she truly is stunning and that I’d be a lucky bastard punching way above my weight if I made good on the proposition glinting in her eyes. This isn’t even about work. We’re simply two attractive people almost guaranteed to have a good time if I could only get out of my own damn way. But when our drinks arrive and we clink them together in a toast, I quickly go for the straw so I don’t have to say anything to her. It isn’t anything she’s done. I’m just a wreck tonight.

We rejoin our comrades at the table. They promptly make fun of my drink.

“I’m not choking down that crap you drink so you can judge me sufficiently masculine,” I shoot back.

---