ONE
June
One kiss. That’s all it took.
No, it started before then. One look from those dark pirate eyes of his, and I was a goner. I don’t even have the excuse of being drunk.
My best friend Wade and I were out last week at Lonnie’s, hunting Wade a new squeeze, which he says he can never find if we go to a so-called “normal” bar. Lonnie’s is pretty great even if you’re not LBGQT—it’s not all neon and club music, it’s like your dad’s cool friend’s garage, with old lived-in leather couches and wooden bar stools, and interesting sports like rugby and curling and dog frisbee-catching on the big-screen TVs, and retro music from the 70s through the 90s. Lots of indie beers on tap, not that I like beer, but at least it means that the place isn’t full of girls in fuck-me shoes drinking $18-a-glass Bahama Mamas.
And it’s not like Wade and I don’t go out with the girls anyway. We’re already planning for next Friday: appetizers and margaritas at Charlie Shark’s with our coworkers, to celebrate Makayla’s engagement.
But here we were at Lonnie’s, and Wade looked good. I’d touched up his hairstyle earlier in the salon, trimming the undercut and zhuzhing up his light-brown curls with a little gel for texture. “See anybody?” he asked.
“Not yet.”
The thing is, although Wade is gay and I am straight, we tend to like the same kind of guy: tall, dark, clean-cut but with a naughty streak—the kind of you-know-you-want-me cockiness you see in early Harrison Ford movies. I have frequently been disappointed with the reality, but I still can’t resist the tease. Wade’s better at having a good time, but not so great on keeping boyfriends around.
Look, he’s my best friend. I don’t judge.
In fact, we’ve been best friends since junior high, when he was the only guy in the flute section of the band. Most of the other girl members of the flute section were grimly earnest overachievers. It was me and Wade holding down the lowest-ranked seats, practicing when we remembered to, and having lots of fun.
And it’s been me and Wade, tight as twins, ever since. We went to prom together our senior year, since neither one of us was likely to get a better offer. I did him a gorgeous young-Burt-Lancaster hairstyle, all short sides and curls just on the top, and he gave me a really swoony Veronica Lake style, except brunette.
But both of us have had a long run of bad luck with guys, starting in high school. Wade’s first boyfriend was a guy named Dave, a baseball player, who was super-closeted and freaked out over me knowing about them. Yet the summer after graduation, he managed to get Wade in a compromising position under the pool table in Wade’s dad’s man-cave. And when Mr and Mrs Howell came home a little early from their movie date, you talk about some freaking out.
Wade got kicked out of his house, so he came and lived in the basement bedroom at mine until we went off to cosmetology school. Then we got jobs together at Halo Salon, where we’ve gotten really tight with the girls we work with.
I sighed, looking at the guys at the bar. Most of them were good-looking, but all of the cute ones were registering a little too high on the gaydar for Wade’s taste (and definitely too gay for me).“Thing is, bud, I think we might be looking for Bigfoot.”
He snickered. “Bigdong, more like.” I rolled my eyes, but I smiled. “Want a beer to cover your disappointment? We can Uber home.”
I shook my head. “I’ll stick with Coke.”
“Now, if I could find a medium-hot gay guy who drives a Volvo and has a full-time job, and also has sexy tattoos, I’d be happy. But I think you’re right, that beast is mythical.”
“Bigdong,” I agreed. “There are no real-life hot guys that you would want to bang into the middle of next week and open a bank account with. I should probably give up.”
Wade shrugged, and stood up. “Pee break.”
I stood up too, and went to the bar for another round. That’s when he got me.
Hot Doctor, I mean.
He came up to the bar and stood there, all tall and solid in those blue scrubs, and ordered a glass of scotch. When I glanced over to get a better look, hoping against hope for McDreamy, he gave me a sly sideways smile that instantly turned my insides to liquid. “Hey,” he said, “can I buy you a drink?”
“Coke,” I said, trying to keep my cool. “I’m the designated driver. Are you just getting off work, Doctor?”
He looked down at his shirt. “Oh. Yeah. What, you think I’d treat patients while drunk?
“I’d hope not.”
“Never.” The bartender brought him his drink, and then got me my soda.
“Do you always hit on girls in the gay bar?” I asked, still trying to calm down, and wondering in the back of my mind where Wade was. “What if they’re lesbians?”
“I never hit on girls, gay bar or not,” he said, and sipped his drink. “But it’s the five-year anniversary of my divorce and I figured it might be time to get back in the pool.”
“In a gay bar? Seems like bad odds. I mean, what if I was the only straight girl in the bar?”
He laughed, and my nipples started to tingle. “Glad to hear my judgment’s pretty good. But I would have come up to say hi anyway.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re gorgeous,” he said. And he just sat there looking at me with that little half smile, eyes dark and hot and pirate-sexy. Which was probably what made me lose my mind, because I leaned over and kissed him. I kissed him.
I’m still not sorry.
His mouth was as hot as his eyes, and he tasted like scotch and sin, and he made a little humming noise against my lips before he settled in and kissed me back. Every thought left my head, and pleasure flooded my entire body, enough to make me lean into him and kiss deeper. My nose filled up with the smell of him: cedar and citrus and male skin. My body came alive with the delicious naughtiness of kissing someone I just met, whose name I didn’t even know.
And then I got jerked off the stool.
“What?” I stammered. “What?”
Wade seized me by the shoulders, glaring at Hot Doctor. “I’m her boyfriend, asshole! Come on, babe.” He dropped a $50 bill on the bar, and he dragged me out to the parking lot, moving a lot faster than Wade typically moves.
“What the hell!” I spat at him when he stopped us at my car.
“Dave,” he said.
“Dave?”
“My Dave from high school,” Wade said through gritted teeth. “Please baby Jesus tell me there’s vodka at home.”
And in the face of his distress, I stopped being mad. “There’s vodka at home.”
TWO
June
“Nearly si-ix,” Wade croons at me from the next salon chair over, making ridiculous eyebrows that I know the client in my chair can see.
“Stop that,” I mouth to him while I put in another curling-iron spiral. I turn the chair to the right so she can look into the parking lot instead, and release the curl.
He makes a hand-rolling motion at me, trying to speed me up, then winces and grabs at his abdomen. He’s been complaining of stomach pains all afternoon. Which is unusual. But like all guys—gay or not—he does get Man Flu. When he’s sick, it’s the absolute worst illness anybody could ever have, and no one could suffer more, and please could I bring him another cup of decaf Earl Grey with extra honey because he really thinks he’s dying this time.