Only For You Page 4

  A horn blared pulling me from my revelation, and I realized I was a statue in the middle of the parking lot. With an apologetic wave to the inconvenienced driver, I proceeded to my car. The mystery was solved to my relief. While there was no excuse for his rude behavior, I better understood Hunter. It wasn’t personal, just a couple of body parts I possessed that were not his preference. I smiled with indulgent understanding. Actually, he was amusing in a Machiavellian kind of way, entertaining though sharp and judgmental. Despite his character flaws, if Hunter was a woman, I would befriend her. As a straight man, he unsettled me and was patronizing. However, as a gay man…what girl doesn’t want a brooding, snarky, beautiful, gay best friend?

  I had yet to consider the possibilities of his friendship as it pertained to my dating pool. Gay or straight, hot guys were friends with hot guys—birds of a feather. Hunter was my ticket to a new selection of drop-dead sexy fresh meat.

  Crystal must have secretly hoped to convert him to team hetero. No wonder Hunter didn’t reciprocate her advances. He didn’t reject her outright to protect her pride, far more empathetic than I had given him credit.

  I couldn’t wait to tell Sam about my epiphany. She would be equally excited to expand our duo to a trio. As I drove to work, I turned on Lady Gaga’s “Born This Way” and sang along enthusiastically.

  After work, I headed home and found Sam sitting on the sofa reading a textbook.

  “Hi, girlie. How was work?” Sam asked, looking up from her text.

  “Great. I had an enlightening day.” I geared up to share my revelation with Sam.

  “I want to hear all about it, but before you share the details, I need a favor. I have been reading this calculus textbook for the last four hours. I’m in desperate need of fun before I turn into an automaton. Will you come to The Stop with me tonight?” The Bus Stop, commonly referred to as The Stop, was our favorite local bar.

  “Sam, it’s only the first week of classes, not even a full week, how can you possibly be turning into a robot already?” I didn’t want to go out after working an eight-hour shift.

  “You read one page of ‘Theorems of Calculus’ and you will understand the danger. Just a couple of drinks. Neither of us have class tomorrow,” Sam pleaded.

  “Okay, let’s get dressed and head out. Are we wearing pants or dresses? Subtle or flashy?”

  Sam grinned at my quick change of tune. “Pants, it’s freezing outside. Understated sexy is the theme for clothing, hair, and make-up. Heels are required, there is no snow on the ground, so don’t even bother trying to come up with an excuse. Now, scoot!”

  After I showered, styled my hair, and applied my make-up, I slid into a vintage pair of black cigarette pants and a pin-tucked tuxedo shirt. I added a wide patent leather cincher belt, gold cuff bracelet, and a string of pearls. I completed the outfit with my black patent leather stilettos. Finished, I glance in the full-length mirror, pleased with the results.

  Sam met me near the door appraising my wardrobe selection, “Well done. I have taught you well, young Jedi.”

  I shook my head at her Star Wars film reference. “Shall we?”

  The Stop was the most popular bar in the area for the over twenty-one crowd, servicing mostly university students and young professionals. Designed as a pub, the exposed brick walls and wood floors established an atmosphere of relaxed sophistication. A small stage where local artists performed and a separate game room (including pool, foosball, and shuffleboard tables) exemplified the bar’s laid-back recreational appeal. The Stop defied every cliché by strictly carding at the door, requiring valid identification verified by scanner. An additional benefit, the lack of underage girls deterred slime balls who sought inexperienced, easily persuaded, and less self-possessed targets.

  We proceeded directly to the bar to find warmth of the liquid variety. I was surprised to hear piped music, as Thursdays promised live performers until midnight. The atmosphere was subdued despite the crowd, as if the music was dictating the temperament of the patrons.

  We secured two stools at the long mahogany bar and spied our favorite bartender, Griffin, approaching.

  “Hello lovely ladies. Good to see you both, it’s been a couple of weeks. What can I get you?”

  “We’ll both have pomegranate mojitos, thanks,” Sam ordered with a flirty smile.

  He returned with our cocktails, smiling at Sam as he set our drinks before us. Sam extended a twenty but he waved it off.

  “These are on the house, a welcome home drink. Besides, they may prove to be medicinal in a few minutes. I don’t feel right charging you to lessen your prospective suffering.”

  “Thanks?” Sam and I replied in unison, both lost after his confusing statement. The Stop never gives free drinks. Never.

  We clinked our glasses before enjoying our first sip. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Griffin, who had served us drinks minutes ago, mounting the stage. Ah, medicinal—I get it. He must be the live music for the evening. He didn’t have much faith in his abilities if he believed his performance would necessitate alcohol to be tolerable.

  I had seen Griffin countless times during my tenure at Hensley, both working at the bar and on campus. Neither Sam nor I had spoken with him beyond polite acknowledgements, but he always bestowed a smile or chin lift when he saw us. Despite our previous interactions, I felt I was seeing him for the first time. He was at least six feet four and strong, not artificial like a bodybuilder, but naturally muscled. An image of him dressed as the superhero Thor sprung to mind, which I instantly resolved not to share, unsure if he would see it as the compliment I intended. His wavy blonde hair glowed like a halo in the spotlight adding an ethereal quality. His facial features were decidedly Nordic with a square face and jaw, light eyes, high cheekbones, and a wide mouth with full lips. He could easily pass for a Viking, minus the raping and pillaging.

  “Hi everyone, I’m Griffin Evensen. The artist scheduled to perform was a no show,” he paused to allow the crowd to ‘boo’ their disapproval of the flakey musician, “so you’re stuck with me. Don’t worry, I’ll restrict myself to covers, you won’t have to suffer any clumsy originals. The silver lining is the set is only forty minutes, and the bar will remain open.”

  He smiled self-deprecatingly. He was charming, whether he sang in key or not, his introduction had earned him a fan. After positioning the acoustic guitar, he settled against a stool, trying to appear relaxed and failing miserably. The guitar seemed tiny against his vast body, similar to an average-sized man playing a ukulele. His entertainment score rose further as I couldn’t fathom how he would finger the frets with his mammoth hands. He cleared his throat nervously before strumming the opening cords of "I'm Yours" by Jason Mraz. He was a masterful guitar player, just as good as the original track. It was the perfect opening song, inspiring Sam and me to bop and sing along.

  His voice was fantastic, complimenting the song, and he was perfectly in tune, a pet peeve of mine. As his set unfurled his confidence rose, allowing him to relax and lose himself in the music. His set planning was clever—he transitioned from fun songs to comforting songs that offered greater depth of meaning, and I was captivated. After the final chords rang out, the trance holding everyone silent broke, the cheers and applause were nearly deafening. Sam and I whistled our approval as loudly as we could manage, trying to voice our praise above the roar of the crowd.

  “Wow!” Sam whispered reverently. “He was amazing, I never would have expected that voice to come out of his body. And his set was brilliant! We should make a playlist with all those songs.”

  I agreed, and we texted ourselves the set list to download tomorrow.

  “You still have to tell me about your enlightened day,” Sam made air quotes around the word enlightened. “Spill it.”

  Sam listened intently as I recounted my run in with Hunter in painstaking detail. She snorted, unsympathetic to my plight of tolerating Hunter in another class. She believed fate was having a laugh at my expense and was smug when I
revealed my presumptions about Hunter’s intelligence were proved false. I edited out my near strangulation by scarf, determined to retain a small shred of dignity.

  "…enlightenment struck on the way to my car—Hunter is gay!"

  Sam was unconvinced. “Are you sure? That wasn’t the vibe I picked up; my gaydar needle didn’t even twitch."

  "I’m positive,” I stressed, then proceeded to share my observations as evidence. Yes, I was stereotyping terribly, not all gay men could be identified by looks, behavior, or attitude, and he didn’t tick many of the points on my pigeonholed checklist. It was necessary to examine the nuances of Hunter to support my conclusion.

  "You know what this means, don't you?" Sam stared at me blankly, clueless to the source of my excitement. “He is going to be our third Musketeer! It will be perfect."

  "Insta-friend? I'm not sure, Ev. I see the draw for us. But what’s in it for him? You’ve been rather insulting where he is concerned. He may not be receptive to your sudden attempts at camaraderie.”

  "He was rude to me first!” I nearly shrieked in defense. “Plus, I think he was enjoying the verbal warfare. It’s a game now—albeit one he keeps winning—but I’ll get points on the board soon. How could he not want to befriend us? Beautiful, smart, witty, fun, and loyal; he won't be able to resist."

  "Should we devise an induction ceremony for him?" she mocked my excitement. After visible consideration she continued, “There would be benefits to finally having a gay bestie. Think of the pointers and insight he could provide on blowjob techniques alone. With his input, I could be legendary; no man would be beyond my reach. Do you know how many fights with future boyfriends my oral finesse could prevent? I’d even be able to persuade a man to see a romantic comedy with me after he was getting some.” She gasped, clapping her hands excitedly, “Can you fathom how many pieces of jewelry this sexpertise would coax from my future husband?" These realizations had earned her full support of my nomination.

  “Sam, too much information. Filter, please,” I scolded, but smiled inwardly at her shared eagerness.

  “Which part?”

  “All of it.”

  Sam fully embraced Hunter as our soon-to-be third, even enumerating the advantages if he were here with us. As we danced she added, “It would definitely help to repel the riffraff two girls dancing together attracts.”

  As if on cue, a cute boy appeared behind Sam. She looked into my eyes for a cue—catch or release? I subtly pushed her shoulder causing her to lean into cute boy’s chest, which was all the encouragement Sam needed. Spinning around she began to dance—or more accurately grind—with him and he offered no complaints.

  I continued to dance adjacent to them, providing space but still indicating I was not alone trolling for men. I felt a body press against me from behind as hands gripped my hips. I turned my head to admonish the unsolicited advance and found Lincoln grinning widely, much to my relief. Linc and I had become friends freshman year and often danced together when we were out. It was innocent fun with no genuine hunger between us.

  The night ended with my promise to meet Linc for lunch the next week, and Robbie—Sam’s cute boy—attaining her number.

  Chapter Four

  * * *

  "When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives means the most to us, we often find that it’s those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand.” -Henri Nouwen

  I woke Friday morning at 11:00, a luxury for me, and found Sam at the kitchen table eating breakfast.

  “Coffee’s in the pot, Eggo’s in the toaster,” she offered succinctly.

  I grunted before continuing to the kitchen to fill a mug with my first cup of the day. I carried my coffee and waffles to the table, almost ready to test my language skills, but not quite. Sam recognized the signs and resumed her chatter.

  “Robbie texted me this morning.”

  I raised one eyebrow to communicate my surprise and approval.

  “He invited me to dinner tonight. I don’t have to work, so technically I’m free. Do I seem too available if I say yes?”

  I raised both eyebrows to communicate disapproval.

  “Yeah, yeah, no games. If I like him and I want to go, I should accept. He did text me within nine hours of receiving my number,” Sam sighed, “Okay, I’ll do it. You always give the best advice.”

  I smiled wryly, knowing I had contributed little to her decision. Having consumed sufficient coffee, I was finally ready to speak. “Glad to help. He seemed nice enough and was cute. Go and enjoy yourself, but be careful, there are crazies on the loose.”

  I tried to joke, but we both had exercised caution when dating the past year. Prudence was a hindrance to casual dating. During my first two collegiate years I dated liberally, accepting most invitations. I generally liked people, and enjoyed a casual dinner while becoming acquainted; I was no hussy, though I did enjoy the attention of the opposite sex. When the attacks began, caution dictated I select my dates more discriminately. As the violence persisted, many suspected the perpetrator was a Hensley student, forcing me to exercise additional caution. With no suspects, I feared the possibility of finding myself on a first date with a perp. Consequently, I spent more time dancing with friends, such as Linc, than any potential suitor over the past year. One more reason to despise the lowlife—he was squelching my romantic pursuits.

  “I’ll text him now to accept,” Sam announced animatedly.

  Thinking of our recently established first date safety protocol, I said, “Remember to text me every few hours to check-in. I’ll expect you home by midnight if I don’t hear otherwise. Please don’t forget, I don’t want to contact the police for no reason. I read an article in Newsdaily that stated the police were inundated with missing person reports. The violence increased paranoia and spurred a ton of false alarms.”

  “Yes, mom,” Sam chided me for my parental tone.

  I arrived at work, ready to conquer the day. Higher Yearning was a staple in the community, located on one of the main thoroughfares in the central shopping area of Suffolk County. The middle to upper-class residential neighborhoods surrounding the shop provided ample clientele. A light brick exterior with large glass windows painted an inviting picture. The marquee, anchored above a black and grey striped awning, was mammoth and beveled with notched corners in espresso colored wood. The letters were scripted in a quirky font and inlaid silver. Between the word ‘Higher’ and ‘Yearning’ was a gold inlaid carving of a book resting beneath a coffee mug with wisps of steam rising up.

  Inside the shop, walls of exposed brick were dressed with black and white photos of local landmarks framed in black. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling and chic wall sconces provided ambient lighting. The seating area was spacious with a mixture of red velvet couches, modern wingback chairs in a gray damask, and espresso wood bistro sets, creating separate conversation areas that could be easily re-arranged. The wall behind the service counter was painted red to match the couches, serving as a dramatic backdrop for the multi-level glass showcase.

  “Hi Marty, I’m here,” I greeted my boss.

  “Thank God. The paper order arrived today but still needs to be checked and stored. The new girl called out…again. The bakery order needs to be placed for next week, and I still need you to go through the online catalogue of beans to select the special next month.” Marty always seemed frazzled, but today she was extra-tweaked.

  “No problem, Marty. I will get it all accomplished.”

  Over the past three years my responsibilities at Higher Yearning consistently increased. I managed the staff, scheduling, and supplies, while also keeping abreast of competition in the area and new trends. Marty eagerly relinquished any task for which I was willing to assume responsibility. She was a wonderful woman, but she was burnt out, after operating the successful business for twenty years. With an empty nest, Marty wanted to retire with her husband, allowin
g them to fulfill their dreams of traveling while young and fit.

  Timing is everything in life. I came into Marty’s life when she began to contemplate her future retirement. Marty came into my life when I was discerning a career path and how to journey from ‘wanting’ to ‘doing.’ Voilà—two people with symbiotic needs and aspirations. I loved coffee the way a sommelier loved wine, the way Bill Clinton loved an intern; I knew I wanted my own business, where the fruits of my labor benefited me directly. Once I met Marty, I realized that my desire to own a business and my love for coffee could be combined to forge my profession.

  Having accomplished my chores, I checked in up front to ensure all was under control, releasing the barista for her break. I poured myself a dark roast and enjoyed a few sips before ducking below the counter to take inventory of the flavored syrups. The chime alerted me to an incoming customer as I hurried to finish my count. As I popped up from my squat and greeted the unseen patron standing before me. Once recognition dawned, I froze…again.

  Hunter stood before me in all his masculine glory. His hair was windblown, effortlessly sexy, begging me to tame the errant locks with my fingers. His aquamarine eyes absorbed the overhead lighting and reflected at me with laser precision. What was he doing here? I was prepared to snap at him when I remembered my intention to befriend him. I graced him with a wide genuine smile and started over.