Page 8 of Iron

Oh, shit, I hate this. I love that my Dad pulled strings for me, but for a guy like Gavin, it has to seem like I’m just the spoiled brat again.

“Um, yeah. I’ll be there.” I bite my lip, tracking his eyes locking onto that. My tongue flicks out to lick, and his eyes flare slightly. “I hate Dad got me an exemption, but it feels stupid to not take it.” His eyes watch my mouth the entire time I say this.

“Take the exemption,” he growls. Oh god, please do that again, right in my ear.

I actually take a step. The step. Until I can feel the heat of his chest. I have to tilt my chin up to meet his eyes. My lips part. I’m breathing way too fast. His hand touches my cheek. I feel his breath on my mouth. My knees are going to give out.

His hand drops, his forehead touches mine for the briefest of touches. And then… he’s gone, slipping past me, into the house and out the front door before I can register that.

Nothing.

Actually.

Happened.

6

GAVIN

Florida in June can be iffy. The hot and humid comes in to press on your body long before it is ready. I slide into a plastic chair at Niki’s, my favorite restaurant in Wilton Manors, and turn my golf cap backwards so the fans don’t blow it away. The pothos and monstera vines growing in the lattice overhead block out the worst of the sun, and it’s pleasant out here. The staff have taken glitter beads from the Pride celebrations earlier this month and draped them on the blow up flamingos and unicorns scattered among palm trees.

Bill and Gregory are already here ahead of me, holding hands and making gooey eyes at each other. They are both over fifty, growing fat and bald together. Indulgent smiles look their way as they press their foreheads together. I love a gay restaurant.

A cute waiter prances our way, short ponytail low on his skinny neck and a hot pink t-shirt proclaiming he is “Straight”, “Bi-sexual”, “Gay”, “Trans”, “FABULOUS!”.

“What can I get you boys to start?” he simpers, dropping water, chips and salsa on the table, then rests a hand on my shoulder.

“Just Banging Iced Tea for me, unsweet.” I dipping a chip and munching. The over-the-top names on the menu never fail to bring a smile.

Bill and Gregory both order Mash Your Cheeks Mango Mimosas. “Day drinking for the win!” Bill giggles. The waiter prances off, throwing a wink over his shoulder at me.

“So how was Denver?” Gregory asks. “Vance put on a good time?”

I give them a summary of the fun day, complete with drag queen drama. They howl with laughter.

Drinks arrive, and I stir fake sugar into my tea while the couple sip their fruity bubbles.

“Did you meet anyone? Have some fun?” His eyebrows pop up and down.

“No.” It comes out a touch too sharply, and Bill catches it.

“Oh, there’s something,” he says softly. “Want to talk about it?”

Fucking perceptive man. I rub a hand over my face. Do I want to say this out loud?

“Maybe,” I admit.

They wait quietly, giving me space to gather the words.

“Young golfer,” I say slowly. “Too fucking young.”

“Age isn’t everything.” Gregory holds no judgement in his eyes. He nods towards a table in a back corner with a younger guy and an older man holding hands and talking softly. “Didn’t Vance marry a young guy?”

I groan. “This one has some baggage. And I’ve played golf with his damned father.”

“Oof,” Bill says. “But, honey, we all have baggage.” He squeezes Gregory’s hand and grins a loopy smile. “Some of us have shipping crates, even.”

I sigh.