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His face can’t get any redder. “You look like you’re having a lot of fun out there with Elliot.”
“He’s a fun guy. Or a drunk guy. Can’t tell. But I do know he likes unicorns.”
“Do you mind? I gotta pee.”
“Why didn’t you lock the door?”
“I really gotta pee.”
“Are we still doing this friend thing?” I ask Danny, taking a few steps forward, then leaning against the sink, right next to him, so close I can feel his warmth.
He gives me an oddly defiant look. For someone who’s so sweet and kindhearted, the expression sits oddly on his face, like it doesn’t belong there. “Yes,” he finally answers. “We are.”
I let my eyes float on his lips. I can still taste them. I can still feel their pillowy softness against my own. My heart races just from the thought. “You sure?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I …” He hesitates, for a second losing his own breath. “Why wouldn’t I be? I said I didn’t want to rush into anything, didn’t I?”
I meet his eyes again. The tension between us is wire-tight and unbearable. He really wants to play this thing out, apparently—to its bitter, frustrating end.
“Now please, will you let me take a piss in peace?”
“Sure thing … friend.” Then I see myself out of the bathroom. I hear the click of the door’s lock after it shuts.
Danny sure is one frustrating piece of work. Why does that make me want him even more? Is that part of his game? Is he playing out a diabolical plan of his own?
Who’s playing whom?
When I make it out of the hallway, I notice Elliot in the center of the throng right away, dancing like his dick depends on it. Taking advantage of the glorious dancing distraction, I scurry along the edge of the room to the kitchen, where I intend to find myself a drink.
That’s when I run into … shit, I’ve already forgotten his name again. Jerry? Jim? “Uh …”
He comes right up to me obediently, carrying a glass of wine. “Hi there, Rome, sir. I got you a drink and waited here in the kitchen, like you ordered.”
To be honest, I completely forgot. “You’ve … seriously been waiting here all this time with my drink …?”
“Yes, sir.”
I take the drink, then hold it awkwardly, not sipping from it. As if I needed to feel even more like the evil mastermind of my own diabolical scheme than I already do, now I have a willing minion at my bidding. I don’t want to fathom what comes next.
Until suddenly what’s next comes for me: Elliot, emerging from the dancing throng as a sweaty, out-of-breath hot mess. “Oh my god, Romeo, what are you doing all the way over here?” He doesn’t so much as glance at Tim. Oh, right, his name’s Tim. “You owe me a dance, mister!”
Elliot’s arm slips around the small of my back as he falls against my side, like I’m already his score of the night, a sure deal, claimed.
Tim notices. “Oh. Is this your boyfriend, sir?”
Elliot looks up, noticing him for the first time. He squints, then turns to me and asks in a quiet voice: “Who’s the weirdo?”
The moment my lips part to give an answer, someone else appears at my other side.
Danny.
“Oh, hey,” I start to greet him.
Without a moment’s hesitation, he swipes the glass of wine right out of my hand and downs the whole thing. Then he hands the glass off to Tim, lets out a surprisingly hearty burp, and faces me. “I want to dance.”
I blink.
Is this what Danny looks like when he’s giving in?
“You want to dance … with me?”
He glances at Tim, then Elliot, then finally me. “Why not all of us? We’re all here. We’re all friends. We’re all single.” He lifts his chin. “So let’s get out there and … press our bodies together like a bunch of friendly, horny, single men and get … f-fucking nasty.”
I barely have time to form a reply before he grabs me—while Elliot is still attached—and yanks us onto the dance floor. Somewhere behind, Tim follows, asking, “Rome, sir, should I stay in the kitchen? Or should I dance, too? I’m a bad dancer, but I’ll try, if you want. Or I could—”
And now it’s official: I have no fucking clue where this night is headed.
17. Ride
“Why don’t we get out of here?”
That’s the question that changes the whole night.
Was it Elliot who asked it? Tim? Danny? Myself? I don’t even remember. The music was too loud. The bodies were too sweaty. The drinks were too drinky. Before I know it, the messed-up quartet of us are stumbling our way out of the elevator. The security guard smirks at us as we pass by. Elliot makes a comment about whether we should ask him to join us, because his muscles were about to bust out of his “adorable uniform”. Tim notes how he likes an authoritative guy in uniform, to which Elliot remarks about how quickly he’ll get that man out of his uniform.
