Page 32 of Steam

“Are you Logan?”

The young man on his doorstep is not Oliver.

Certainly, Logan had realistic expectations. Oliver was not going to be magically recreated here in Reno for his enjoyment.

But the young man outside his door isn’t even remotely what he’d asked for.

He’s young alright—Eric had gotten that much right.

But where Oliver was tan and tawny with lovely hair sticking straight out in every direction, this boy had pale skin, dark hair that was cropped close on the sides with abundant curls at the top.

He was shorter than Oliver, his shoulders wider.

There’s nothing that stirs Logan about this person’s looks.

He wouldn’t give the man a second glance on the street.

“Can I come in?” he says, peering at Logan. His eyes are brown (the wrong color), and he’s staring wide-eyed at Logan, frowning openly now.

No, every part of it was wrong.

Had Eric not listened to him?

This isn’t going to work at all. What a fucking mistake.

“Uhh, great, ok,” the man says, pushing himself bodily past Logan into the condo. “I guess I’ll make myself at home then. Not much of a talker?”

Logan is stunned and he watches the man as he walks cocky into the condo, removing his coat and draping it across a bar stool without asking, continuing to talk even though Logan hasn’t said a word.

He walks with the swagger of someone who is used to being watched.

“Well, I’m Henry, and I assume you’re Logan,” he says, turning back to Logan now. Underneath the coat, the kid has his shirt unbuttoned halfway to his belly button and his tight jeans are rolled up at the ankles.

Without the coat on, Logan can see more of his physique—and yet more details that differ from Oliver. His forearms are thick with ropey muscles and decorated with sporadic, small tattoos.

Eric had sent him some pale, half-jock, half-hipster.

“Hell of a condo you have here, wow,” the kid says, flashing a toothy, practiced grin. “That view. I mean goddamn.”

What was the procedure for returning an escort?

“It’s OK if you’re nervous, Logan,” he says, pacing towards Logan with purpose now, maintaining an almost uncomfortable level of eye contact. “I can do all of the talking for us both.”

Logan raises a hand and watches as the man stops in his tracks a few steps away.

“That’s not it,” Logan says.

“Then what’s wrong?” he asks, resuming his prowl towards Logan before finally sidling up to him, laying a hand on Logan’s chest.

“Don’t,” Logan says, stepping back.

“God, Logan, you really are nervous,” the kid says, smiling as if Logan is the most amusing person he’s ever seen. “We can take it as slow as you want, Logan,” he says—and it’s grating on Logan for whatever reason now how often the other man is saying his name. “Or you can take off that shirt, show me the rest of those tattoos?”

“No,” Logan says, firmly. “Sorry. This wasn’t what I had in mind.”

“Come again?” the kid says, knitting his eyebrows together. “You realize you weren’t hiring me to show up and clean your house, right?”

“That’s not what I mean—”

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