Page 5 of In Frame
“Is that what we’re doing? It’s not the strangest way I’ve been asked out—which involved a trained carrier pigeon, by the way—but I wouldn’t say taking pictures of my friends counts as the best way, either.”
“It’s my job. Trained carrier pigeon?”
“It brought me a note on set. Tragically, the scheduling never worked out. Your job is terrible.”
“I know,” Sam said, and the resignation in the words caught Leo’s attention like the swoop of a butterfly-net: a capture, a trap, an ache of emotion. “But I’m not bad at it, and it pays the bills.”
“Surely you could do something else. Serving coffee. Competitive soap carving. Fashionable footwear modeling.”
“You think I’ve got cute feet?”
“I haven’t been able to form an opinion about your feet,” Leo said. “You’re wearing shoes.” Sam was, stylish but worn blue-and-white Converse. “You know what I mean.” The conversation was surreal, and the night was surreal, and for some reason he was now wondering about Sam’s ankles, about the line of that calf, how the shape of him would feel and whether those legs would be smooth or lightly fuzzy, under a curious hand.
Whiskey arrived, courtesy of Brian the bartender, who gave Sam an unsubtle thumbs-up before departing. Leo wasn’t sure what this was intended to mean, and said so. “Or was I not supposed to notice that?”
“He tells me every time I come in here that I need to get laid, so I think he’s being encouraging.” Sam slid a glass over. “Try this.”
“How do you know I even like whiskey?”
“I don’t, but I’m hoping?”
“Well,” Leo agreed, “you’re not wrong,” and took a sip. Honey and toffee and oak pooled across his tongue, and drenched the world in layers of sherry, vanilla, lingering spices. He took a breath, astonished.
“Thought you’d like that one,” Sam said, with satisfaction. “Sweet, and also complex.”
“Was that a compliment?”
“Totally.” That American accent—possibly even from here, Nevada or Vegas itself, Leo thought, though he was by no means an expert—delivered the word with extra certainty. The compliment was a compliment, and Sam wanted him, and Sam was sure about this.
Like the whiskey, the surety filled up the night and lingered. Lamplight brushed Leo’s hand, a condensation-ring on the table, Sam’s smile. The pause was natural, and soft.
“You know,” Sam said after a moment, “Iamactually hitting on you. You know that, right? I like guys, and I think you’re gorgeous and interesting and genuinely nice, and I know I’m not anywhere close to being in your league, but I’m kind of hoping being all honest and obvious about asking wins me some points?”
Leo sat there in the wood-framed booth and stared at him. Could not, for once, think of anything at all to say.
“I mean,” Sam said, “I don’t expect anything, you’re you and I’m me, I know, I just—I like you and you already agreed to come here with me and I thought, well, if you did say yes—if you wanted, just tonight, one night, if I bought you a drink and we just…we could see how the night goes, maybe? If you want.”
“Ah,” Leo managed. “Er…but…look, for one thing, it’s Andy’s party and I should really get back and meet up with them…oh, sorry, that’d be Andrew—”
“Connors. I know. And Jillian Poe, and your friends.” Sam got into a staring contest with his glass. “I get it. You’re busy, and I do…what I do…and I shouldn’t’ve asked. Pretend I didn’t.”
“No, it’s fine, it’s only…I’m not actually gay?”
Sam choked on whiskey.
“I don’t mean I’m exactly straight!” Leo panicked at him. “I mean…I don’t know what I mean. I do look at attractive men. Like you. You’re quite attractive. It’s just…I hadn’t really ever seriously thought about…but that doesn’t mean it’s not, er, an option…” The clarification wasn’t helping. Not for either of them.
Sam dropped his face into both hands. Muffled by fingers, got out, “Oh my God…I amsosorry…oh God, you’re straight and I should never try to flirt with guys ever…”
“I said Iwasn’tstraight, exactly,” Leo pointed out, ruffled by the assumption. “Or I don’t know. I haven’t asked myself about it much. And I’m flattered, not upset.”
“Oh God,” Sam mourned again, buried behind embarrassment. “And you’reLeo Whyte. I tried to hit on you.”
“Does that matter? I’m not, oh, Colby Kent. I’m just me.”
Sam dropped the hands. Looked up and over. “I didn’t ask Colby out for a drink—”
“Which is good, because Jason would have something to say about that, no doubt involving those biceps—”
