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He dragged himself out of bed and dressed for work, not yet decided about what the night would entail. He picked up coffee from a cart. Then, as he passed the door of a restaurant, the sweet smell of pancakes and syrup hit him, and his stomach clenched. He tossed his coffee in the trash. He’d regret that later when a caffeine headache rendered him useless, but he couldn’t possibly swallow anything right then. The smell of pancakes had made him sick ever since that horrible morning five weeks and six days ago.
He’d managed to push himself through work each day, robotically going through the motions but lacking the spark that had once made him a great consultant. He’d gone sailing almost every Saturday, and the time on the water was the highlight of the week, though it would have been so much better with Dash at his side. He pretended he was happy, hoping that eventually he’d convince himself of it. But as soon as he smelled chocolate or heard a voice that reminded him of Dash, or saw a young man with blond curly hair, all the pain came back. Thinking of Dash still had the weight to crush him. His sister and Lauren had both made suggestions for things that might take his mind off Dash. But those were, at best, temporary fixes. He began working longer hours again, because even relaxing reminded him of Dash.
He’d watched Say Anything about twenty times since Dash left, and he’d cried every fucking time. He’d also watched The Breakfast Club and Sixteen Candles and Some Kind of Wonderful. He was turning into a fucking sap. That was going to end tonight. He would find a man and fuck him until he begged for mercy. Hell, maybe he’d even try a threesome.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Almost six weeks post-Thorne, on a Friday afternoon, Riley entered his apartment covered in flour. He’d been making tarts with Susan and all he wanted now was to take a shower and spend the night watching sad movies and moping, same as every Friday night since his non-relationship with Thorne had ended.
Marc looked up from his tablet and announced, “We’re going out tonight.”
“What? No, I’m not ready.”
“You’re never going to feel ready, but we’ve cried enough. It’s time to get out there and fuck those assholes out of our systems.”
That was how Marc had always handled breakups, and unlike Riley, he’d had his share. The fact that it had been weeks since he’d been with another man showed Riley just how much Marc had felt for Hamilton, the son of a bitch who’d lured him to California so he’d have a convenient lay, not to mention a housekeeper, until he found someone out there. Hamilton made Thorne look like a saint, a mixed-up, closeted, arrogant, privileged saint, but still.
“I don’t want to fuck anyone,” Riley confessed, sounding far whinier than he’d meant to.
Marc arched a brow.
How did Marc always know exactly what he was thinking? “Fine. I don’t want to fuck anyone but Thorne.”
“Are you going to be celibate for the rest of your life?”
Riley glared at him.
“Either call him or come out with me.”
Riley frowned. “Call him? You actually think I should?”
“You’re the one who said—”
Riley didn’t let him finish. “No, I’m not calling him.”
“Then how long are you going to wait to get back out there?”
Riley sighed. Marc was right. He needed to at least try to see if anyone else appealed to him. He’d never know if he stayed home.
“All right. I’ll go. I don’t promise to do anything but window-shop, but you’re right. I need to get out of the house.”
“Enough tequila and you’ll be raring to go with some young stud.”
Any man he hooked up with would have to be young, since he immediately compared all older men to Thorne. “Enough tequila and I’ll be on the floor with a limp dick.”
“Bullshit, you’ve never been unable to get it up.”
True. Alcohol rarely affected him that way. But no way was he drinking while Marc was on the prowl, because if he got drunk and Marc wasn’t there to stop him, Riley just might give in to the urge to call Thorne.
***
THORNE FLIPPED THROUGH the clothes in his closet, frowning at everything he saw. He could wear something that made him look like he was trying to appear ten—if not twenty—years younger. Or, he could wear something that screamed sugar daddy. Maybe his lack of appropriate clothing was a sign that going to a club at his age was a terrible idea, but he chose to ignore it. Eventually, he settled on a black turtleneck sweater and some dark jeans that were tight enough to show off his ass but not so tight they looked obscene.
When the car service pulled up to the club he’d chosen, the driver looked at him curiously. “You’re sure this is the place?”
