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Those eyes, man. So dark and deep and looking inside me.
I squirmed until his lips twitched and I got distracted by how good that looked on him.
“I believe the term is that you’ve gone viral,” he said. “It’s a good thing.”
My face was probably all red, but horror pushed aside my normal shyness. “Viral?”
This was my worst nightmare. I didn’t want attention, and why had I done the show today? I shouldn’t have agreed. I should’ve kept to my usual policy of no publicity at all.
This was horrible.
“You look good in it,” the giant—Brett—assured me. “You don’t need to worry about any negativity. Trust me, and anyway, the assholes are assholes. Fuck ’em.”
I was now in a daze. He meant that. I could tell. I blinked. “Huh?”
The side of his mouth lifted. He was almost smiling, and I swear, I was pretty sure he leaned toward me. The top half of his body shifted forward. Just a little.
That meant something. Right?
“I said, fuck ’em. That’s always been my motto.”
I was vaguely aware of the elevator moving, aware that the doors opened. He started forward, then paused.
I moved ahead of him, and he walked beside me off the elevator.
“That’s always been your motto?” I asked.
He kept watching me, not looking where we were going. Something about me amused him. “Yes,” he said seriously. “Only people’s opinions that should mean anything to you are the people you love.”
I started to say I didn’t have anyone like that, but I stopped because it wasn’t true. Vicky, Howard, Lo, Roger, and their three girls loved me. Vicky’s chickens loved me. Miss Sylvia Rivera really loved me.
“Miss Sylvia Rivera?”
My face flooded with heat. “I said that out loud?”
He nodded, no longer smiling. “Who’s Miss Sylvia Rivera?”
“My—where I live, this woman has a bunch of chickens. Miss Sylvia Rivera is my favorite hen. I named her after the real Sylvia Rivera. She was at the Stonewall riots. She also cofounded a homeless shelter for LGBTQ+ youth. And—” I stopped myself. My love was true and genuine. I could’ve talked for hours about all the great things the real Sylvia Rivera did. “She’s just someone I really respect.”
“I’m getting that.” His tone was kind again.
Why was it kind?
“Broudou! Hey, my man,” a voice said. “Could I get a selfie with you?”
“Oh man! It’s Brett Broudou. You kicked ass in the Super Bowl last year. The Orcas didn’t know what hit them.”
His buddy laughed. “Literally, man. I could tell Doubard was happy you’re on his team. Hey! Is it true you and Mason Kade are archrivals from high school?”
“Was it about his woman?” the first guy piped up, handing over a pen and paper. “Aren’t you, like, screwing a supermodel?”
I’d gone tense at the first question, not paying attention to where we were going, and boom, here we were, out on the street. What was I doing on the street? My car was in the parking lot.
I was tense and confused about our location.
Brett said, his voice went low. “You want a selfie with me, and you expect me to sign your shit while you speak disrespectfully about people I know? You serious right now?”
Whoa.
