Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 75720 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75720 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“Not all men are trash,” I said to Malik, shooting a glance at Jake. Tristan cocked his head, but before I could keep going with my pep talk, a firm hand clamped down on my shoulder. I turned, wondering who’d just popped through my personal space. The gay community in Atlanta was large but compact at the same time, and it wasn’t unusual to spot friends—or old hookups—out and about.
This one was a friend. A best friend, actually.
“Hey, Eric,” I said, going into a side hug. Tristan must have filled him in on where we were hanging out. He looked like he’d just finished working out at the gym with a slightly sweaty green tank top and bright pink Adidas shorts, matching the pink-and-blue sneakers he had on.
“What’s up, dudes?”
“Nothing much,” I answered after he made his round of hugs. “Just telling Malik here how not all men are complete and utter garbage bins. Some—okay, most—are, but there’s a small handful out there that aren’t, and it’s worth it to keep looking for them.”
Eric dipped his head from side to side. “Eh, I don’t know. In my experience, every single guy I’ve dated has had some kind of major flaw.”
“Yeah, but you’re also extremely picky,” Tristan pointed out. “Remember that one time you told a guy it wasn’t going to work because he showed up to the first date wearing mismatched socks?”
“It was one of the reasons. But as soon as he started talking to me about his obsession with collecting quarters, I knew it was a no go.”
“Says the one who collects bookmarks,” Tristan shot back.
“It’s a small collection. And so what? Bookmarks can be works of art. What the hell am I going to do with a rusty quarter from Colorado?”
That got us laughing. Jake jumped in, cutting through the chuckles. “I used to collect teeth.”
We all froze. He blinked, seeming confused at our reaction.
“Teeth?” I ask, suddenly concerned about the man who just had me stuffed down his throat.
“What? No, I said tees, as in T-shirts. From wherever I went traveling to, either with my parents or with a school field trip or with friends, I’d always buy a T-shirt from there to bring back home. Teeth? Jesus Christ, I’m not Jeepers Creepers over here.”
That got even more laughter from the group (and a flood of relief washing through me). I dramatically wiped the nonexistent sweat off my brow. “That makes much more sense.”
He smiled at me, nudging me with an elbow before taking a drink. I noticed Tristan’s attentive gaze picking up on it. I’d likely have some explaining to do later, except there wasn’t really much for me to explain. Jake and I were just friends with a couple of great benefits between us. Nothing that deserved a long talk or explanation… unfortunately.
“Alright, now that we cleared that up, I’m going to get us another round of drinks. What do you all want?”
I mentally took down the drink orders and turned to head to the bar, leaving Jake to go into further detail about his T-shirt collection.
What an interesting man he is.
Whether it was discovering his love for Cats or his passion for a very specific kind of T-shirt, there was always another facet to him that I found fascinating. His love for his mother, his tenderness in caring for her, his excellent breakfast-making talents, and his vibrantly green thumb.
Then there was the way he made love—able to unravel me with a single touch, making me come undone over and over and over again, only to put me back together with a soft kiss and a gentle caress.
Just friends, I reminded myself as I waved down the bartender. Just fucking friends.
I gave my order to the cheery bartender, who danced to the Ariana Grande song as he poured vodka into a brass cup from an impressive height, the liquid flowing down like a clear waterfall. The guy next to me grabbed his cherry-red drink and turned to leave but stopped, catching my eye with his.
“Hey, do I know you?” he asked.
I gave him a quick once-over, trying to do a mental inventory of everyone I knew (or possibly hooked up with) that might have been this guy. He had short, cropped blond hair and a warm, friendly face with bright blue eyes that verged on looking fake. I was about to pretend as if I vaguely recognized him, but I saw the almost fish-shaped birthmark near his left eyebrow and realized I knew no one with that kind of birthmark.
“No, sorry, I don’t think we’ve ever met.”
He stuck out a hand, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Name’s Ron.”
“Hi, Ron. I’m Noah.” I shook his hand, his grip firm around mine. I could feel a couple of rough callouses on his palm.
“There, now we’ve met.”
Smooth. His handshake lingered a little longer than I expected. “What are you drinking?” he asked as the bartender dropped the first drink off.