Page 15 of Make Me Sin (Bad Habit 2)
I know it’s not actually his fault. He’s not standing next to me holding a gun to my head, making me act all crazy and out of character, but he might as well be. He’s infiltrated my brain like a ninja, and no matter how I try, I can’t evict him.
I’m stewing so deeply in my juices, I don’t notice when it begins to rain. It’s only when I step into a puddle and my foot is soaked with ice water that I jerk out of my reverie, and look around.
Crap. I don’t even have a jacket on. I’m getting drenched.
I dart into the first doorway I see, taking shelter. As I’m shaking the water from my hair, four beautiful young men glide by me, open the door, and enter what I now realize is a gay bar.
The blazing neon sign in the window—“Flaming Saddles” it screams—should have been my first clue.
Confession time: I love gay bars. They’re places of uninhibited fun. Also, in spite of what some people think, gay men love women. They just don’t want to sleep with them. The majority of gay men I’ve met have good relationships with their mothers and sisters, have tons of girlfriends, and have a healthy respect for the gender in general. As long as you don’t say anything stupid along the lines of “I bet if you spent the night with me, I’d change your mind,” they have no problem if a vagina-owning human shares drinks with them in their bars.
When my brother first moved to Manhattan a few years ago, he took me around to all the best spots, introducing me to some of the sweetest, least judgmental people I’ve met anywhere.
Outside of New York City, West Hollywood has the best gay bars in the country. It’s been a crappy night, and I need some distraction. I’m going in.
Inside is an Oz of flashing rainbow lights and bar-dancing cowboy bartenders. Bonnie Raitt croons on the jukebox. A giant iron steer threatens to charge from a raised platform. There’s sawdust scattered over the wood plank floor. The Wild West Saloon theme abounds right down to the old black-and-white westerns playing on the overhead TVs.
I slip onto a stool in a corner near the steer, and text Kat and Grace to see if they can join me. Neither one can, which means I’ll be drinking alone like the sad sack I am. In celebration of the first time I’ve ever told my parents off, I order champagne.
Which is when I notice him.
On the opposite side of the room, in a dark corner beneath the mounted head of a longhorn, sits a man in a black hoodie. He’s hunched over the table in front of him, nursing a beer, wearing aviators and an expression that could turn molten lava to ice. His shoulders are so wide, they almost completely block the neon Budweiser sign behind him. I don’t even have to see the mass of dark golden hair tucked under the hoodie to know who it is.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
The cute waiter returns with my champagne. “What’s that sweetie?”
I realize I’ve spoken aloud. I look down at the table, embarrassed. “Nothing. Sorry. Just thinking out loud.”
“I do that all the time, too. My boyfriend keeps saying someone will think I’m a homeless guy who’s off my meds, but what do I care what some judgey stranger thinks? You go right on with your conversation, sweetie, and just raise a hand in the air when you’re ready for another, mmkay?”
Balancing a full tray of drinks, he walks away with better posture than I can ever hope to have. I’m left alone with my champagne and a sudden conviction that the universe is having a go at me. I’m the butt of some cosmic practical joke.
Because the giant on the other side of the room has risen from his table, and is heading my way.
Everything inside me starts to pound. I practice deep-breathing exercises, until he’s too close and I have to look up at him.
Without a word, he sits across from me, lowering his bulk to the chair with surprising grace. He removes his sunglasses. He takes a long swallow of his beer, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and waits.
“I’m not following you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
A.J. nods. I can’t tell whether he’s acknowledging what I’ve said, is agreeing with me, or is waiting for me to add more. He’s making me uncomfortable with his silence. All the anger I felt at dinner—which had begun so nicely to quiet down—surges back with a vengeance.
I lean closer to him and declare, “You made me call my parents assholes tonight!”
“Did I now.”
I think he’s amused. His facial expression hasn’t changed, but his eyes shine. In the low light they gleam like he’s running a fever. I wonder what my own reflect back at him.
“Yes, you did.” I don’t offer anything else, finding it more important to finish my champagne in one huge gulp. I lift my hand, motioning for the waiter. Across the room, he nods, catching my eye.
A.J. says, “Maybe they deserved it.”
“They absolutely did.”
“I did you a favor, then. Now you owe me one.”
He’s toying with me. I can sense it in the look in his eyes, in the way his lips seem to want to lift at the corners. I don’t feel like playing along. I stare at him so long it’s his turn to get uncomfortable. He drops his gaze and frowns.
