Better than Sex (San Francisco Sex Gods #1)

Chapter 6

SIX

Mickey

Since the Blind Tiger was billed as a “speakeasy,” Mickey had been picturing a dark, smoky hole-in-the-wall with flocked wallpaper and shabby vintage furniture. To his surprise, the place exuded a sophisticated elegance.

The heart of the establishment was its grand bar, tastefully designed with warm wood paneling and gleaming brass accents. Behind the bar, three mirrored bays showcased an impressive collection of top-shelf liquor. Five pendant lights with intricate stained-glass globes lit the space, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the bar’s polished surface.

The rest of the place was more reminiscent of a typical local bar, with laminate flooring, black vinyl booths, and wooden high-top pub tables. Upbeat pop music was playing over the speakers.

“Looks like the event takes place over there,” Jazz said, pointing to a circle of six tables off to one side of the bar. On each table, a candle in a red glass jar provided soft, romantic lighting.

A group of men milled around the empty tables, chatting over drinks. Some of them wore stick-on name tags. They had to be the men who had signed up for speed dating. A surge of panic roared through Mickey, causing his palms to sweat.

His eyes darted from man to man, logging a long list of intimidating details. Sculpted muscles. Trendy haircuts. White teeth glowing in perfect smiles. Blazers in bold spring colors. Chinos cropped fashionably short, revealing bare ankles and shiny leather shoes.

Even the men who didn’t have classically perfect bodies still looked like they’d stepped out of a magazine ad.

Mickey tugged at the hem of his shirt. Compared to those guys he stood out like a pigeon in a flock of flamingos. He ran a hand through his hair, muttering with disgust when it came away greasy with pomade.

Jazz fished a tissue out of her purse and handed it to Mickey. “Let’s get you checked in.”

A blond guy wearing a sleeveless mesh shirt and holding a clipboard was set up at one of the tables near the end of the bar. His smooth, hairless pecs were clearly visible through the thin fabric. As Mickey approached, the guy gave him the once-over and curled his lip. “Yeah?”

“I’m here for the speed dating…thing. I’m Mickey.”

The blond checked off his name on the clipboard and slid a name tag across the tabletop. “You have to wear your name tag for the whole event.”

There was a letter scrawled in the corner of his tag. In the candlelight, it looked like a V . “Why does my name tag have a ‘V’ on it?”

The guy turned the tag right-side up. “It’s an ‘A.’ For group A. Why would it be a ‘V’?”

Because I’m a virgin? A virgin-y virgin who’s never felt the touch of a man? “Um…”

Jazz leveled her gaze at the guy. “For versatile. Duh.”

The guy looked down his nose at Mickey. “You’re vers?”

Jazz flicked one of the guy’s little pink nipples. “Is that so hard to believe, Nipples?”

Mickey pulled his teeth over his lips to hide his smile and quickly wrote his name on the tag.

The guy stared at Jazz with open-mouthed disbelief for a second, then recovered and scoffed. “Whatever,” he mumbled before picking up his phone and ignoring them.

As Mickey was sticking the name tag to his shirt, a statuesque drag queen wearing a slinky black knee-length dress sauntered to a microphone set up near Nipples’s check-in table.

“Good evening, gentlemen. And not-so-gentle men,” she said, her voice a sultry, syrupy drawl. “I’m Madge Maker, your Mistress of Ceremonies.” A chorus of wolf whistles and catcalls rang out. “We’ll be starting tonight’s festivities in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, so you still have time to order a drink or tip your hostess.” Madge ran her finger around the rim of a glass punch bowl on the table. She pointed a silk-gloved hand at a tall man who looked like an Abercrombie and Fitch model. “Max, darling. Hopefully this rim gets as much action as yours tonight.”

Max cupped his crotch and leaned in for a quick peck on Madge’s lips, eliciting raucous laughter from the crowd.

A strained, nervous laugh forced its way out of Mickey.

“Let’s get you some booze,” Jazz said, taking Mickey by the hand and dragging him to an open space at the end of the bar.

A handsome bartender with dark hair and a broad, square jaw acknowledged them by flashing a brilliant smile. “What can I get you two?”

Jazz rifled through her purse for her wallet. “Two shots of Absolut and an Absolut and tonic, please and thank you.”

The bartender lined up shot glasses and filled them with vodka. “First time at the Blind Tiger?”

Mickey nodded before he realized the bartender was talking to Jazz.

“I would have come in sooner if I’d known the bartenders were so hot.” She slid her card across the bar. “Too bad they’re all gay.”

The bartender finished mixing the cocktail and picked up her card. “Not all of them,” he said with an eyebrow waggle.

He brought back her receipt and gave her a pen from his apron pocket. “I’m Nathan. Let me know if I can get you anything else tonight.” He wiped up a few stray drops of vodka and moved on to the next customer.

Jazz handed one of the shots to Mickey and held up the other for a toast. “To new adventures,” she said, clinking her glass against Mickey’s and kicking back the vodka.

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Mickey said. He drank his shot in three tentative sips.

“You can thank me later.” She slid the cocktail toward him. “Go easy with this one. You’re a bit of a lightweight, so that shot might sneak up on you.”

“Easy. Got it,” Mickey said, taking a hearty swallow of the cocktail.

“I should get going if I’m going to make it to that movie on time. It’s been forever since I’ve seen a movie that wasn’t made by Pixar.”

“You could stay,” Mickey suggested.

“This is something you need to do on your own, babe. I’ll come back afterwards. We’ll have another drink, and you can fill me in on everything.” When Mickey dropped his gaze and nodded, Jazz placed her hand over his. “I’m a phone call away. If you want to leave at any time, just text and I’ll be here in five minutes.”

Behind them, a male voice yelled, “Caw! Caw!”

Another male voice. “Dude! Seriously, quit it.”

Mickey glanced over his shoulder to see what the commotion was about and froze. Impossible. It can’t be. The two men were chatting by the door and taking in their surroundings, scanning the booths, the length of the bar…

Mickey spun around before they spotted him. “It’s him,” he whispered. He braced his elbows on the bar, suddenly lightheaded. “Jazz, it’s him.”

“Who?”

“ Him . My mystery man. From the diner on Sunday morning. The one that brought Mister Stripes back to Logan.”

Jazz turned to face the door. “Yep, that’s him.” She smiled brightly and waved. “This is great, Mickey. You’ll be able to have a conversation without oatmeal in your beard.”

“Conversation?” Mickey peeked over his shoulder and locked eyes with his mystery man, who was striding toward the bar. “Jasmine Hubbard, did you wave him over?”

She stood and slung her purse over her shoulder.

“Jazz,” Mickey hissed. “Don’t you dare leave me.”

“This stool is free,” she said, patting the stool and stepping aside for the man who had featured prominently in his masturbatory fantasies for the last two nights. She kissed Mickey’s cheek. “Have fun tonight, honey. I’ll text you later.”

Mickey was speechless, his mouth closing and opening soundlessly while he watched his friend leave the bar.

His beautiful stranger took a seat next to him. “Makers, neat,” he said to Nathan. Once he had his drink and had started a tab, he turned his attention to Mickey. “It’s you.”

“It’s me,” Mickey said, smiling sheepishly.

The guy craned his neck and made a show of looking around the bar. “Is the tiger here with you?”

“What?” After a moment of confusion, Mickey picked up on the joke and played along. “Mister Stripes decided to sit this one out. He hates crowds.”

Mystery Man rubbed his chin and studied Mickey with amusement before holding out his hand. “Spencer Ewing.”

Mickey wiped his palm on his jeans and shook the man’s hand. “Mi—”

“Mickey,” Spencer finished for him.

“Yeah. Mickey Briggs. You remember my name?” He couldn’t believe he’d made any kind of impression on Spencer, let alone one that was memorable.

“I do,” Spencer said. He tapped his finger on Mickey’s chest. “But you’re also wearing a name tag.”

Mickey winced. “It’s for the speed dating event.”

Spencer sipped his whiskey. “That’s a nice shirt. Good for a date.”

“Yeah?” Mickey scrutinized his unremarkable hand-me-down shirt. Spencer was probably just being nice, but at least they were talking. “I like your shirt, too. It’s red.”

“It is.” Spencer smiled. “Burgundy, I believe.”

Oh sugar beet. He thinks I’m an idiot. Mickey gnawed on his lower lip, and secretly wished for the San Andreas fault to open up and swallow him whole.

“Your hair is different.” Spencer reached toward Mickey’s hair but Mickey jerked away.

“I wouldn’t touch it. I used too much pomade and now it’s basically an oil slick.”

Spencer’s chuckle, sexy and masculine, resonated low in his chest. At the sound, little drunken butterflies took flight in Mickey’s stomach. “I can’t believe we ran into each other again. What’re the chances, right?”

A wave of applause rolled through the bar as Madge Maker stepped up to the mic. “Welcome to ‘Seven Minutes In Heaven,’ the Blind Tiger’s bimonthly speed dating extravaganza and the most fun you’ll have on a Tuesday night while fully clothed. We’ll be getting started in just a moment. But first, we only have eleven men signed up, so I’ll need one more brave soul to step forward, or else all of you will get a chance to talk to a bitter old queen. Oh!” Madge said, placing a hand on her chest with a dramatic flourish. “I mean, yours truly.” The assembled men erupted into laughter.

“I guess I should head over soon,” Mickey said. “But maybe after—”

Spencer held up his finger. “Hold that thought.” He finished his drink with a single swallow, set his empty glass on the bar, and walked away.

“Maybe afterwards you’d like to meet up again?” Mickey muttered once Spencer had disappeared into the crowd. He puffed his cheeks and blew out a breath. Well, that went great. The event hadn’t even started yet and he’d already had a guy walk off in the middle of a conversation.

He reached for his phone, intent on taking Jazz up on her offer to rescue him. They could still catch the movie. Then he could crawl into bed, jerk off, and fall asleep with his dignity still blissfully intact.

Before he could text her, Nathan stopped over and freshened his cocktail. “This one’s on me.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“My way of welcoming you to the Blind Tiger.” In a gesture straight out of a movie, Nathan slung his towel over his shoulder with a snap of his wrist. “Say, are you wearing an undershirt?”

Mickey flinched. “No. Should I be?”

“Undo two more buttons,” Nathan said, gesturing toward his own open neckline. “And roll up your sleeves.”

Mickey reluctantly complied with Nathan’s instructions. He wasn’t comfortable showing a lot of chest hair, but then again nothing tonight felt comfortable. At this point, if a hot guy like Nathan told him to wear his pants backward he’d have considered it.

“Want some cologne?” Nathan crouched down and returned with a blue bottle.

“You just happen to have that back there?”

“You’d be surprised what we have back here. Hold your shirt open.” Mickey spread the neckline of his shirt and Nathan gave his chest a spritz of an aromatic, citrusy fragrance.

“It smells good,” Mickey said, smiling at Nathan’s unexpected act of kindness. “Thanks.”

Nathan returned the smile and nodded toward the event. “Knock ’em dead.”

Gazing at the men clustered around the softly lit tables, Mickey took a deep breath and brushed off his shirt. “Here goes nothing.”