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“It’s not that bad,” Greg murmured, but he still took a swallow of his drink.
Luis filled his own glass, then took hold of Greg’s arm and led him to the living room. “Dish,” he said as he pushed Greg into one of the plush, purple Fendi Casa velvet club chairs he’d found at an estate sale and bought for a hundred and fifty bucks. LA was the most ridiculous place Greg had ever lived when it came to thrift-store shopping and yard sales, and Luis was a master at it.
“There’s not really much to tell.” Greg shrugged and took another sip. “Mason…” He looked over his shoulder as Darius entered the room, grateful for the distraction he provided.
Unlike his more flamboyant friend, Darius wore jeans and a plain, white T-shirt that highlighted his well-muscled arms and dark skin. Even without makeup, he was striking with sharp cheekbones and gray-green eyes, full lips, and a tall, slim body he kept toned with regular Krav Maga workouts. While Luis was every inch a twink, that was the last word that came to mind with Darius, even though it was equally true for him.
Greg had met Darius five years earlier when they were both fulfilling the annual self-defense certification their carrier required. They’d gone out once, realized there wasn’t a spark—not a surprise now that Greg was more aware of his own sexuality and Darius’s relationship with Luis—then moved into the condo when a space became available. He loved both his housemates and considered them two of his best friends, though he was definitely closer to Darius.
Darius flopped onto the couch next to Luis, who immediately swung his feet into his friend’s lap.
“Tough night, I take it,” Darius said. He held out his hand, and Luis handed him his margarita. He took a sip, then began rubbing Luis’s feet. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Can we not, please?” Greg asked. “It was shitty. It’s over. I want to move on.”
“Best way to get over someone is getting under someone else,” Luis quipped.
Greg resisted rolling his eyes while he thought about how well that advice seemed to work for his two housemates.Not. Even after living with them for five years, he wasn’t clear on whether they’d tried being boyfriends and still carried a torch for each other or if they’d never ventured into that territory for whatever reason.
“I’ll take your word for it,” Greg replied dryly. “But I don’t think there’s anything to get over. Mason ended up being just one more asshole in a long line of assholes.”
“Oh, honey,” Darius said. “I’m so sorry.”
The sympathy in his voice was genuine, but it made Greg uncomfortable because it wasn’t the first time or even the second or third he’d found himself in this position. His friends had been there for him, though, even when he’d discovered he was HIV positive three years prior, thanks to having put too much trust in the wrong person. Mason’s admission tonight came back to Greg, and he winced at the memory as shame flooded his body. How could he keep being so colossally stupid about people?
“What’s up, buttercup?” Darius asked, apparently reading Greg’s humiliation correctly. Fortunately, he was precluded from answering by Luis’s moan as Darius dug into a spot just below the ball of his right foot.
Luis let his head loll back on the couch’s armrest. “If only I could find a guy who made me feel half this good when he fucked me.”
“Not for want of trying,” Darius’s deep voice rumbled with suppressed laughter.
“You calling me a slut?”
“If the shoe fits, princess.”
Luis wiggled his feet while Darius laughed, and Greg smiled because the two of them were ridiculously perfect for each other. While Greg might be asexual, he was a romantic, and he’d love nothing more than to see Luis and Darius together.
Yawning, Greg got up from his chair. “If we’re going out, let’s get a move on before I turn into a pumpkin.”
Afewhourslater,Greg was standing at a table at Neon while Darius and Luis were lost somewhere in the crowd on the dance floor. Lights flashed, EDM pulsed out of the club’s speakers at top volume, and the place was packed with gorgeous men as only a gay club in West Hollywood could be.
His friends had gotten him to dance, and he’d accepted offers from other guys, but Greg had opted to remain at the standing table they’d found during their last drinks break so he could cool off. Against all odds, Luis had been right, and he was having a good time. He probably wouldn’t end up going home with anyone, but Greg couldn’t deny that being flirted with was doing a lot to restore his bruised ego.
“Can I buy you a drink?” A stupidly sexy guy angled his way into Greg’s field of vision and rested his elbow on the table.
“Thanks, but I’ve already got one.” Greg raised his vodka and tonic, then took a sip for good measure.
The guy smirked but didn’t move away. Instead, he leaned in closer, interest written all over his face. Greg turned so he was facing the guy and took in his model-perfect features: the precisely cut hair styled to perfection, the dark dusting of scruff that encircled his mouth and created shadows along his jaw, accentuating his sharply chiseled cheekbones. How much of it was natural and how much the result of an excellent plastic surgeon, Greg couldn’t tell. The guy wore a skintight black tank that showed off every muscle in his torso and left his well-defined arms fully visible, and dark form-fitting slacks cinched at the waist with a thin black belt. He’d accessorized with a single gold chain around his neck that drew attention to his throat and exposed collarbone. It was matched by a gold cuff bracelet and a couple of chunky rings set with glittering stones.
While romantic or sexual attraction might be slow to develop, Greg did experience aesthetic attraction and mentally acknowledged that this guy ticked several of his boxes. The dark scruff especially, as well as the firmly masculine appearance. He also liked that the guy was taller than his own five foot ten. If he had to make a guess, Greg would opt for him doing something in the film industry, which wasn’t exactly unusual, but he didn’t think actor was quite right. While the guy had obviously had work done, that also wasn’t unusual in a city where physical beauty—and its enhancements—was practically currency.
Greg leaned closer and introduced himself. The guy did likewise. “I’m Max,” he said with a sly quirk of his full lips that made Greg wonder if it was his real name or just one used in clubs. He raised his glass toward Greg’s.
“Nice to meet you, Max.” Greg clinked their glasses together.
They chatted for a bit. Max was, indeed, involved in the film industry as a stand-in for a major action star, though he wouldn’t say which one, which left Greg wondering how much of what the man was saying was a lie.
“No desire to get in front of the camera?” Greg asked.
