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He lifts his chin. “Having a drink,” he answers firmly. “As you can clearly see for yourself,” he adds, then his eyes go wide and he looks away, as if his own words just scared him.
Now he’s blushing five times worse than he was when I first approached him. I love this game he’s trying to play with me.
I clear my throat. “Let me get you another. What is it you’re having? Jack and Coke? Rum and Coke?”
He presses his lips together tight and clasps his glass like it’s about to grow legs and run away from him. “Just Coke,” he finally confesses, trying (and failing hard) to act all cool and flippant, “and I don’t need another. In fact, I … was just about to leave.”
He fidgets, his legs nearly squirming.
He turns his head away, but not completely.
I smirk knowingly. This kid is so into me, I have no doubt now. I can tell he’s concealing a boner. I swear, if he squeezes his thighs together any tighter, he’s going to turn his cock into a diamond.
“So no drink?” I fish one last time.
He doesn’t look at me, forcing himself to stare at the ceiling. “Nope.”
Hard to get is a game I know well when it’s played by cuties like this one. And it’s a game two can play. “Alright, no prob.” I let my gaze drop to his lap, give him time to notice, then flick my eyes back up to meet his, my forehead wrinkling innocently. “I hope you find what you’re looking for tonight, stud. Excuse me while I go … lick my wounds.”
He parts his lips as if to say something, then freezes. I don’t give him another chance. Turning, I saunter off to a table near the door where it’s a little less damaging to the ears, then claim a seat and stare at my phone. There’s two messages sitting there from Rebekah, but I ignore them, as I’m not really paying attention to the phone; I’m paying attention to whether or not my little ploy is going to work. When you play hard to get, you need complete and utter focus. To be fair, this game of mine has backfired before.
A shadow covers my screen. I look up.
There he is.
He folds his arms. “So you’re gonna leave? Just like that?”
“Do you see me leaving?” I counter.
He bites the inside of his cheek and stares me down. Then he says, “I don’t see you licking any wounds.”
“I’m a fast licker,” I quip back.
The joke doesn’t land. In fact, his crossed arms tighten and he looks off, as if searching for someone. Then, surprisingly, I see a genuine desire in his eyes to get the hell out of here. His whole face and body is tensed with discomfort. Why didn’t I let myself see it sooner? Maybe I was too busy entertaining the dirty thoughts wrestling through the bed sheets of my mind.
He isn’t like the typical cutie who churns through this place. He’s a fish out of his fresh water pond, and he’s drowning in air. The look in his eyes strikes me, reminding me of the first time I ever went to a club. It was long before I started working out, long before the tattoos, and long before the success of my company. I remember how terrified I was. I remember the constant feeling that I didn’t belong, that I should go home, that I wasn’t gay enough or hot enough or naked enough. Every single guy I looked at would turn away like I was nothing, and I hated them all for it—all those elitist queens who wouldn’t give me the time of day.
Am I doing that to this guy?
Am I now one of the elitist queens?
As fast as I see that glint of discomfort in him, I’m on my feet. “It’s really loud in here.”
My voice pulls his focus back to me. “Oh? Is that so? Nice observation. Next you’ll tell me it’s sweaty and smells like straight sex everywhere.”
I fight the laughter in my chest. This boy’s got a lip, and I love it. “You want to go somewhere quieter?”
His expression changes, softening.
He seems hesitant, perhaps weighing it over in his mind. He looks off toward the bar, fidgeting, then glances down at his phone. Just when I’m about to say something else, he looks up suddenly and blurts, “Yeah. Y-Yes. Let’s … get out of this place.”
Just what I wanted to hear.
5
Trevor is totally not freaking out.
Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.
I have to pay very careful attention to where I step. The last thing I want to do is trip over my own foot in front of this hot, gorgeous man who radiates with strength and control. Leave it to me to be the only one in that bar who wasn’t drinking—and then eats concrete on his way out.
