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He just used “exotic”. Twice. In a row.
Here we go. The clumsy beat-around-the-bush ethnicity chat. I can smell it a mile away.
“Tell me,” the bear says, almost like an order. “Where’s your family from?”
“Upper-east side,” I answer dryly.
“Yeah, I get that, but …” He squints at me like an interrogator. “Where’s your family from-from?”
“All from upper-east side, Grayson Point, like I just said. Born and raised.”
The bear—clearly still unsatisfied—digs himself even deeper into the hole. “I meant, like … well, y’know …” In lieu of words, he starts gesturing weirdly at me. “Like … uh … where’s your family, uh …? Y’know …?”
“Oh!” I snap my fingers with mock realization. “You mean where are my parents’ families from?”
He breathes a sigh of relief. “Yes! That. Where are they from?”
“Glad you asked! My pop’s folks are also from Grayson Point. And my mamma’s family is from Whitaker Park. All here in the city. You know.” I burn him with my super exotic eyes. “Like I already fucking established three times.”
The bear blinks at me.
I think I might’ve just broken his poor brain.
“Oh, uh, my friends are calling me,” he decides suddenly, then excuses himself without another word. And I guess I’ll excuse him just as quickly, shaking my head and looking off.
Connor leans toward me tentatively. “I take it that … happens a lot?”
“It just reminds me of another reason why I never go out. Hell, why don’t people just ask me directly what my ethnicity is instead of beating around the bush like that? Or why ask at all? Why not start off with a drink first? Or better yet, my fucking name?”
“I mean … well, I don’t know. With an accent like mine that I’m always tryin’ to hide, people ask me where I’m from all the dang time …” Connor starts to say.
“Yeah,” I cut in, “but they’re not really asking you the same question, now are they? You heard that guy’s tone of voice. When he asks me where my family’s from, what he’s really saying is: ‘Hey, because you’re not white, I’m assuming your family somehow isn’t from here, or likely immigrated within the last three generations.’ Shit. My family’s been in this city for way longer than 80% of the clientele in this bar, that much I can damned near guarantee your ass.”
Connor nods slowly at that, mulling it over as he gazes out at the room full of sweat, beards, and spiked harnesses. “That’s fair,” he decides. After a moment, he then adds, “And myself included,” with a light, muted chuckle, realizing the truth of it.
A moment passes where neither of us say much at all, letting the noise of the club fill our ears. I’m sure I’ll be going home unsatisfied tonight. It’s more than clear to me that this idea of going out was a total waste.
“Is that him?” asks Connor.
I glance toward the entrance. Standing there is a young guy with toned yet slender arms shown off by a tight black sleeveless shirt, and jeans that hug his shapely legs and boots. Thick leather cuffs wrap each of his wrists, complemented by gray fingerless gloves. His buzzed head looks away, as if searching for a friend.
My heart skips a beat, but just from a look at that guy’s clothes, I know it isn’t him. “Nah,” I say finally with a sigh. “That isn’t—”
Then he looks the other way.
The rest of my sentence drops right back into my throat, unspoken.
His bright blue eyes don’t see me, but I sure as fuck see them—and him—all of him. His face. His perfect jawline. His high cheekbones.
His perfection.
Then, still without seeing me, he turns away and heads back into the street.
“Was that him?” asks Connor—again.
“Yeah,” I finally admit, struck.
Connor stares at me in shock. “So why aren’t we getting up? He’s cute as fuck, by the way. Wow.”
“I’m not …” I scoff, annoyed suddenly. “Why did he just up and leave like that? Nah, he isn’t a piece of meat I’m trying to score. I’m not like that.”
“But he’s a client you’re trying to recruit, right? Or, rather … re-recruit,” Connor amends, confused for a second. “If you let him slip away again—”
“Fuck it,” I growl, ditching my seat the next second and marching out into the street after him.
7
I’m pushing through crowds of drunken fools looking for his buzzed head and black sleeveless shirt. Fuck, how did he get even hotter since that night? Was he hiding those toned arms or some shit? I look both ways, gnawing on my teeth in rabid frustration, then head across the road when the light turns red.
I think I lost Connor two blocks ago. I have nothing on my mind but those bright blue eyes of my guy, and I think Connor will understand.
It’s several blocks later that I spot him across the street … just when the lights change and traffic flows between us like a raging river of metal, noise, and exhaust fumes.
