Better than Sex (San Francisco Sex Gods #1)

Chapter 8

EIGHT

Mickey

Spencer mouthed “ Sorry ” to Mickey before wrenching his shoulder from his friend’s grip. As they walked to the bar, Spencer yelled, “What the fuck, dude? I was talking to him,” before the rest of his words were drowned out by the ambient music and conversation.

Why on earth did you admit you were a virgin? “Hey! Date me,” Mickey muttered to himself. “I have no idea what I’m doing.” He heaved a sigh. Raising his cocktail glass, he uttered a forlorn toast before taking the last swallow of his vodka. “To my right hand. May we have a long and happy life together.”

All around him, men were chatting in pairs or groups. The circle of warm candlelight that softly illuminated him felt like it had the blinding intensity of a spotlight, highlighting to everyone that the poor twenty-eight-year-old virgin was sitting alone.

Madge approached his table and pulled out a stool. “May I?”

“Sure.”

She set a cocktail in front of Mickey and took a seat. “Vodka tonic. Nathan told me.” She wiggled her fingers in a coquettish wave at Nathan, who waved in return.

“Thanks,” Mickey said, accepting the offered cocktail and taking a huge, fortifying sip.

“I’m going to go out on a limb and say that all this is new for you.”

“Oh, you mean dating? Being in a gay bar?” Mickey nodded and let out a humorless chuckle. “That obvious, huh?”

“We’ve all been there, sweetie. It can be especially hard coming out later in life.”

Mickey choked on his mouthful of vodka. Later in life ? He knew he didn’t look like all the other gay men. But the fact that he might not look like he was in his twenties was new, and possibly more devastating, information.

“But you showed up tonight,” Madge continued. “That’s a huge step. Trust me, it only gets easier from here. Are you having fun?”

“I guess so. But I don’t get the impression the guys are into me.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I think one of the guys is interested in you.”

Mickey glanced to where Spencer was standing at the bar, having an animated discussion with his friend.

“You seem like a nice guy,” Madge said. “The bar scene can be tough sometimes for nice guys. Lord knows this event doesn’t always bring out the best in people. But a lot of good men come here, too. You’ll find your people.”

Madge clasped Mickey’s hand. The cool, soft caress of her silk glove soothed some of his anxiety. “You’re one of my boys now, Mickey, and I take care of my boys. Any of these guys gives you a hard time, you let me know, okay?”

The event’s statuesque host was the last person from whom Mickey expected such kindness and ready acceptance. “Thanks, Madge,” he said around the lump in his throat.

“Anytime. You can call me Jack, but only when no one else is around.” Madge winked and sauntered back to her post, bantering and wisecracking with the men she encountered along the way.

I think one of the guys is interested in you. Madge had to mean Spencer. Of all the guys, he was the only one who talked to Mickey for their entire date, and the only one who showed an interest in Mickey’s personal life.

Should I go talk to him? Should I wait for him to approach me again? Maybe slowing down and taking things one step at a time was the better bet. Wasn’t the classic dating advice always “play hard to get?” Although Mickey knew he’d be about as hard to get as the common cold, he could try his hand at the game and avoid throwing himself at the feet of the first guy who finished a seven-minute conversation with him.

He glanced at the bar again. Xander was focused on his phone, but Spencer was looking at Mickey. When their eyes met, he lifted his index finger from his drink for a finger wave. Something Xander wouldn’t see. Something just for them.

He took another sip of his cocktail. I’m so not playing hard to get.

For round two, Madge separated the A group from the B group and used the men’s assigned numbers to set up the dates. Each time the buzzer sounded, she announced a new trio of pairings, first “one-two, three-four, five-six,” then “one-three, two-five, four-six.” They were like secret codes that sent the men laughing and tripping over each other to find their next date.

Now that all the men were buzzed, they were much friendlier, and the conversations flowed more easily. To his surprise, Mickey was starting to enjoy himself.

His last date of the evening was with a skinny, inebriated guy whose wavy brown hair kept falling into his eyes. He’d introduced himself as Geoffrey – pronounced jaw-free – while pointing to his name tag, where the g-e-o was underlined three times. The two of them had quickly bonded over their shared love of romance novels.

“I’m reading this book about firefighters. They’re so hot. With their bare chests, and boots, and suspenders.” His eyes took on a dreamy, unfocused cast as he rested his hand on Mickey’s forearm. “Don’t you just love fighter-fires? I mean, fighter-fighters.” A bray of laughter burst out of him, which morphed into a large belch. The two men giggled uncontrollably until the buzzer sounded and startled them both into another round of giggles.

Geoffrey pointed his thumb at the bar. “That’s my cue. I need to find some fried food. Ooooh…maybe nachos. Nice meeting you, Mickey.” He patted Mickey’s shoulder, as much a friendly gesture as a way to support himself while he stood, then wove his way to the bar.

Madge stepped up to the microphone. “Okay boys, time to find out which of the guys you’ve dated tonight wants more than seven minutes in heaven. On your ballot, write down the names of the men you’d like to meet up with again. If you match with someone, I’ll work a little of my magic. Hand your ballot to one of the bartenders and you’ll get a drink on the house. Danny, fifteen minutes on the clock please.”

Danny set the timer for fifteen minutes, and when he hit the buzzer, men scurried to the empty tables to fill out their ballots.

Mickey found an available seat at the bar. When Nathan stopped over, he held up his ballot. “Voting time.”

“Want another vodka tonic?”

Even though he was pleasantly buzzed, the thought of more alcohol made Mickey’s stomach lurch. “I should probably go with something nonalcoholic. Maybe a Coke?”

While Nathan poured his soda, Mickey flicked at the corner of the ballot. Across the top was written: Who’s your match made in heaven? He wanted to write Spencer’s name, but that seemed silly. The guy had been chatting with other men for nearly an hour. Whatever tenuous connection they’d forged on their date couldn’t possibly have survived much past the intermission.

He chewed on the end of the stubby pencil. He could pick Geoffrey. They had things in common, and Geoffrey seemed like a genuinely nice guy. But if he was being honest with himself, there hadn’t been any chemistry between them. Coming from a virgin, that said something.

“So, I’m not supposed to intervene,” Nathan said as he lay down a cocktail napkin for Mickey’s Coke. He speared a maraschino cherry on a small plastic sword and nestled it between the ice cubes. “But your friend from earlier is checking you out.”

Mickey followed Nathan’s eyeline and found Spencer watching him from one of the high-top tables. When their eyes met, Mickey raised his hand in a half-wave. Spencer answered with a broad smile.

“Oh brother,” he whispered to himself. His hands trembled with a heady mix of excitement and anxiety. Before he lost the nerve, he scribbled B6: Spencer on his ballot, folded it in half, and handed it to Nathan.

Almost immediately, he wanted to grab it out of Nathan’s hands and tear it into a thousand pieces, so no one could ever see how foolish he was being. It was suddenly all too real. If he hadn’t written anyone’s name, he could’ve had another drink with Jazz, shared a few laughs, and gone home.

But now he could be rejected, and that hurt more than the prospect of going home alone.

“Can you watch my drink?” he asked Nathan, a little too loudly. When the bartender nodded, Mickey rushed to the bathroom.

Thankfully, no one else was in the dimly lit room. He made a beeline for the sink and splashed cool water on his face. With his hands braced on the counter, he struggled to bring his breathing under control.

Just go. Walk to the movie theater and meet Jazz there.

It was better to leave now – while the thought of Spencer picking him could remain a pleasant fantasy – rather than stay and face the far more likely disappointment.

Resigned, he ripped off a piece of rough paper towel and blotted his face dry. The creak of the door behind him let him know he was no longer alone. He looked up and was shocked to find Spencer’s friend stepping up to the neighboring sink.

Xander leaned his hip against the counter and crossed his arms. “Hi,” he said, his tone icy.

“Hi,” Mickey said, struggling to keep his voice steady.

“So. You’re the reason Spence ditched me and signed up for a speed dating event. Fascinating.”

Something about the interaction felt off, dangerous. Xander came across like a snake charming its prey before the final strike. Did he follow me in here to make fun of me? Or worse?

“Um…” Mickey cleared his throat. “Did he tell you about our date?”

“He didn’t have to. Spencer and I have been best friends for ten years. I can read him like a book. He’s intrigued by you.”

“Intrigued?”

“Yeah. Which means I’m intrigued. You’re different from the type of guy he normally hooks up with.”

“We didn’t hook up.”

Xander nodded and locked eyes with Mickey. The piercing, laser-focused stare of a predator. Sizing him up. Searching for vulnerable spots. After several tense moments, he crossed his arms. “Are you a virgin?”

There it was, hanging in the air. The big question. Point blank. As if he were wearing a scarlet letter V because he was careless enough to share his secret with one guy. One guy . A burst of adrenaline coursed through Mickey’s system, causing his hands to quiver. “Does it matter?”

A smile slowly spread across Xander’s face. “You are, aren’t you?”

Mickey was humiliated. Even though he felt two inches tall, he had to stand his ground. He squared his shoulders and straightened his spine. “Leave me alone,” he said as forcefully as possible, hating the tremor in his voice. “Please.”

Xander held up his hands in surrender. He pushed off the sink counter and looked Mickey up and down once more. “Huh. There’s some fire in there after all.” After a dismissive shrug, he strolled out of the bathroom.

Tears pricked Mickey’s eyes as soon as the door clicked closed. He was so sick of being dismissed. He might not be muscular like Xander, or confident like Spencer, or put together like Greg, but he was a good person.

Doesn’t that count for anything?