Double Up Page 3

  “Mmmm. Too young.” Eddie sniffs.

  “For an old man like you maybe.” I snap my towel at him.

  “Driving, darling.” There’s an edge to Eddie’s admonition. “And I’m only three years older than you.”

  “Yeah, but you’re a grown-up.”

  “Meanwhile, you’re Peter Pan, teaching the lost boys how to fly with wishes and pixie dust?”

  I hear the bite of warning in his voice, see the quick side-eyed glare he shoots my way, and I’m quick to reassure him. “No pixie dust. Just flying.”

  “I’m glad. I worry about you sometimes. Especially when I see you pull a Raley out like it’s the good ol’ days.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I don’t need that.”

  “I think you do, actually. I just wonder when you’re ever going to care about yourself enough to see it.”

  “Eddie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  He does, for the rest of the lesson. I know I’ve hurt his feelings, and I feel bad about that, but I am so goddamned sick of the way he is always trying to mother me. I focus on Dave instead, on watching his form, offering suggestions. I have him ride across the wakes a few times so he can see what it feels like. Eventually, he climbs into the boat with an exhausted grin and says he’s done.

  “You did really good,” I say.

  “Thanks.”

  “What time should I pick you up for dinner?”

  “Seven?”

  “It’s a date.”

  hen Dave opens the door to greet me that evening, his hair has been tamed from its bedhead-meets-lake-water mess, but it’s still charming in its disarray, not messy, just not coiffed. Cute.

  “Hi.” He smiles as he opens the door wider. “Did you want to come in and have a drink before we go? I could open a bottle of wine.”

  I shake my head. Not that I’d know cabernet from kiss-my-ass, but I still feel a pang of regret turning him down. I don’t want the wine—I want him. And I recognize the invitation for what it is—an acknowledgement of the attraction, a chance to jump ahead to the main event—and my thoughts fly to that bearskin rug and all my naughty fantasies. But I had fun with him today, and I don’t want to skip dinner, skip the getting-to-know-you bit. I reach for his hand and lean in to brush a kiss across one cheek. “I owe you dinner.”

  He laughs and his cheeks turn pink. I interpret his blushes like a secret code. I think this one means I’ve passed a test. “Okay then.”

  Neither one of us seems to know what to say, but as we pull away from his house, he puts his hand over mine on the gearshift and smiles at me across the truck, breaking the ice.

  “You like punk music?” He gestures to the stereo that is blasting seriously hard-core shit from the eighties, and I nod vigorously. “You know these guys had some really antigay lyrics.”

  “Yeah.” I frown. How do I explain liking something that hated me? “It’s weird; that’s really not why I started listening to this band—the lyrics. I liked the noise, the frustration, the sound of oh God, the world is fucked up and I have to live in it. This—being a gay redneck shit—sucked, and that sound was what I felt. I was scared to go to any of their shows, because even back then, I knew, you know? I knew I was what they hated. But the songs made me feel alive.”

  “Do they still?”

  I shake my head. Very few things in a grown man’s life can compare to a teenager raging at the world to a punk soundtrack.

  “So why do you still listen to them?”

  I have to laugh, because sometimes even I don’t know. “It’s nostalgia. Remembering that time in my life makes me feel young.”

  “You aren’t old.” He tightens his grip on my hand and his thumb feathers across the back of my knuckles. It’s such a sweet touch. Not an I-want-to-get-you-naked touch, but an I-like-you touch.

  “Old enough.” The reminder of our age difference stings a bit. Here I go parsing the types of hand-holding with this cute guy like this date could ever go anywhere. Damn, I should know better.

  I park the truck outside the restaurant and we make our way inside. The hostess smiles broadly at us, and she’s flirting with my date, swinging her hips and glancing over her shoulder at him as she shows us to our table. He thanks her a little too profusely, flashing those dimples and making her blush. I want to do something crazy juvenile like grab him by the front of his shirt and kiss him hard right in front of her.

  “Really, man?” I scowl as she ass-twitches away.

  “What, I can’t control her actions.” He snickers.

  “You shouldn’t encourage her.”

  “Oh c’mon, I wasn’t flirting.”

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “What makes you feel alive now?” He changes the subject, and I’m glad—he couldn’t make his disinterest in the girl any clearer.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said the music used to make you feel alive. What makes you feel alive now?”

  The question is like a gigantic double-up is rolling right at me and I’ve dropped the handle.

  “Riding wake early in the morning, before the fog’s cleared off the water. Flirting with a much younger man. Sex. Candy.” I pause to take in the smile spreading across his face before I whisper, “Energy drinks.”

  His laugh rolls out of him, and I love hearing it, I love that he let me turn his serious question into a joke because, man, this back-and-forth between us really makes me feel alive. I grin across the table at him. “You asked.”

  The waiter arrives to take our drink order.

  “Should we order a bottle of wine?” He picks up the list, glances at it, and then looks back at me.

  Well, shit. I’d dodged the wine thing at his house, but I should have realized it could come up again.

  “I don’t drink.” My voice, usually kind of brash, is barely anything, erased by my embarrassment.

  He glances at me over the wine list, sets it aside, and looks up at the waiter. “Mineral water for me, and something sweet for him: Sprite with grenadine in it.”

  Relief and surprise rush through me, leaving me dizzy. Do they teach “perfect fucking human being” lessons somewhere? And how does a guy sign up? Like I’d even be able to get into that school.

  “Sprite with grenadine?” I ask as the waiter walks away.

  “Tastes like candy,” Dave stage whispers. God, he’s really fucking gorgeous, isn’t he? I lean closer and grip his chin with one hand. He shivers, eyes dilating. I kiss him gently, and it’s friendly, but arousing in the way only a first kiss can be. My intentions to keep it chaste go straight to hell because he whimpers and his lips part and my tongue steals out to tangle with his briefly. It’s madness. It’s heaven. He tastes sweeter than candy, like laughter and sunny days on the lake. I draw back and release his chin to take his hand instead.

  “Thanks, that sounds great.”

  He squeezes my hand. “You’re welcome. So, what’s good here? I’ve never been.”

  And dinner goes on like that, with him sometimes deferential and sometimes a little bossy, flirtatious, and the touching—God, I can’t get enough of our little touches: holding his hand at the table or brushing our knees together underneath it.

  He doesn’t ask about my not drinking and I don’t tell.

  I will, eventually, if this ever goes anywhere other than the bedroom and the wake boat, but I can’t count on that happening. Some things are so fucking personal, so private, that making myself vulnerable to a guy on that level can burn me, bad.

  He tells me about becoming an architect, learning to use CAD, but preferring hand-sketching. He talks about how he likes to visit the construction site with his clients while they talk about their ideas. He tells me about how his house, my fantasy house, started as a project of whimsy, became a project of passion and then eventually a home.

  “I gotta confess, I was pretty overwhelmed with jealousy when I saw it,” I tell him. “But now it’s different. Knowing you desi
gned it, I’m not so much jealous as in awe.”

  “It’s just a house, Ben.” But he blushes and smiles at me. “So what about you? Did you always want to be a pro-wakeboarder and be retired by forty?”

  I laugh. Shit, who doesn’t dream of going pro at whatever they love best? Though I could have done without the early retirement.

  “Well, yeah. I mean, from the time I started riding, I loved it. I always liked the idea of board sports, but I was never really into skating—didn’t dig the road rash. Snowboarding was okay, but it’s not like there’s many places to do that in the South. West Virginia and North Carolina are too far to just pick up and go on a whim, and the weather is too unpredictable to make plans. But wakeboarding, around here? If you’ve got a wetsuit, you can ride most of the year.”

  Dave grins at me. “I gotta admit, living in Florida does have some advantages.”

  “Right?” I grin back. “When I was a teenager, I fell in with a group of kids who rode. One of them lived on the lake, so we hung out all the time smoking pot and riding. This—riding—was our thing, right? I got good—really good. I got a huge kick out of showing up the rich kids, and once my competitive nature took hold, I was hooked.”

  I catch his expression of mock surprise. “And eventually there were the contests and the sponsors, and the videos. Having my own pro-model board and bindings. The interviews on ESPN and the X Games medal. It was a rush. I always came back.”

  I sip my grenadine-laced Sprite—it really does taste like candy.

  “The Lake Lovelace Tournament and Double-Up Contest was kind of my homecoming every year. I swept the awards for three years running. Fifteen years ago, I was going for a fourth, and I crashed hard, landed badly, and broke my back.”

  “Shit.” His voice shakes.

  “Yeah, I wasn’t joking when I tried to warn you off the event. By the time I healed from the first surgery, I knew I wasn’t ever going to ride professionally again. Some riders do after a serious injury, but I couldn’t.” I shrug, try to make it look nonchalant. “Washed-up at twenty-five. Eddie set up the pro shop and I’ve been running that ever since. I still make royalties on the videos and stuff, and occasionally get interviewed as a ‘legend of the sport’ when the X Games are on and whatever. But I’m not a professional rider anymore.”

  “Eddie owns the pro shop? I thought you guys were just friends? He’s your boss?”

  “Well, yeah, sort of. Eddie owns all kinds of businesses, including the boat dealership my shop is attached to. He’s not really involved in the day-to-day.”

  “Isn’t that weird? When you have sex with him?”

  “Well, there’s plenty weird about having sex with Eddie, but it isn’t because he’s my boss. It’s ’cause he’s a grade-A certifiable freak in the sheets.” I shiver, and it’s not just drama. Eddie is a kinky fucker. He’s fun, but a little high maintenance and definitely into stuff I can’t do for him.

  “Oh yeah?” Dave’s eyes light up. “Like how?”

  “Oh no, we’re not getting into Kinky Eddie stories. If you ever hook up with him, you’ll see what I mean.”

  Dave goes very still and sets his fork down. His voice is strained when he asks, “Why do you think I’d hook up with him? I’m on a date with you.”

  Huh. Why did I say that? “Well, sure. But you know, you’re young and cute and I’m assuming not burdened by any serious relationship. You could probably hook up with just about anyone you wanted, and Eddie might generally prefer older guys but if you got him in the mood, he’d totally blow you.”

  He looks like he’s swallowed a lemon as he gestures for the waiter and asks for the check. It happens so fast, I don’t even have an opportunity to protest before he says, “I think you should take me home now. This was fun, Ben, but I don’t think we have the same values in a relationship.”

  Relationship? Who the fuck said anything about a relationship? Relationships are something other people do, not me.

  “Dave, we’re …” I struggle to choose the right words. “We’re not in a relationship.”

  “I’m well aware. But they start with people going on dates, and we’re in the middle of one of those. One which was going just fine until you made some assumptions about my sex life.”

  Well, now I’m just fucking pissed.

  “Your sex life? You were asking about mine,” I remind him.

  “You’re right, that was rude. My apologies.”

  The waiter returns with the check, which I snatch before Dave can reach for it.

  “Dave, I don’t care that you asked about Eddie. I just figured if we were talking about sex and Eddie, it was small talk. The gay community in this town ain’t that big, and I’m not the biggest catch. I know that. I figure as long as nobody’s giving you a reason not to, you’re gonna sleep with other guys. And we’re on a first date, you know? It ain’t …” I correct myself. “It’s not like I have much experience with dating.”

  “Okay, for the record, I don’t do casual hookups. Not my style.” He pinches the skin at the bridge of his nose and sighs heavily. “I’m not into Eddie; I’m into you. I don’t expect fidelity without a relationship, and I’m not offering either yet. But it bothers me that you assume I would sleep with someone casually or hook up with a guy you’ve been with, or what-the-fuck-ever you’re assuming. I thought we were having a good time and now I don’t know what you think of me, and …”

  His face is getting redder and redder, and I realize it’s not anger—though there’s some of that—but embarrassment. I embarrassed him?

  “Hey.” I grab his hand. “Let’s forget Eddie. Let’s forget fidelity and relationships. We’re on a first date. You know what I think? I think you’re hot and cute and smart and the house you built gives me almost as big a hard-on as you do. I think you’re pretty fucking great, and I’d like to kiss you again and maybe do more than kiss if you’re okay with that. I’m sorry; I messed up.”

  He takes a deep, slow breath, and I can see the moment he sheds his anger and embarrassment like a snake sloughing off its old skin. The redness in his cheeks fades to something soft.

  “No, I’m sorry. I overreacted. Like you said, it’s a first date. I guess I want you to be as wrapped up in me as I am in you … and if you can talk about me hooking up with someone else so casually, it stings. I’m not sure what it is about you, but I feel, I don’t know … just really into you.”

  I have to laugh. “Dude, I wanted to push Eddie off the boat this morning when he hugged you. I got jealous of how you smiled at the hostess.”

  “Oh.” The sadness on his face turns into a smile. “God, that’s actually pretty sweet.” Dimples. Yes, please.

  “Still want me to take you home?” I raise an eyebrow at him.

  His hand steals beneath the table to squeeze my knee, and I would swear he is actually leering.

  “Definitely.”

  When we pull up in front of Dave’s house, I’m unexpectedly nervous, and leave the car idling. Unable to make eye contact, I tap my hands on the steering wheel. Is he going to ask me in? Am I going to ask him to invite me? Do I even want to? This is a legit fucking minefield of sexual tension, and I have no idea how to navigate it.

  Until I look at him.

  The bastard is amused. One corner of his mouth tilts up, a dimple darkening that cheek, and his head lolls back against the headrest. But he’s watching me, and there’s a challenge in his eyes. A challenge and something more. Heat.

  “I know you don’t do casual sex.” My voice is too damned loud.

  “And you don’t do relationships.”

  “I never said that exactly.” How do I explain it? “I don’t really know if I do relationships or not, but I don’t want to make any promises.”

  Honesty. I can do honesty. Honesty I’m good at.

  “I can appreciate that, Ben.” God, my name sounds good on his lips. “I’m not asking for a promise. I’m just asking you to respect that anything we do tonight isn’t casual to me. I can�
�t do sex without emotions. I don’t want to. If you decide you don’t want anything more than sex after tonight, you need to respect me enough to tell me that. Don’t string me along.”

  My breath catches—how can he possibly think I could ever be the one holding the string? I struggle to say yes, I understand, I’ll be careful with these feelings stretching out between us like the rope between rider and boat. I don’t want to mess it up. “I’d like to think we’re friends.”

  “Me too.” He smiles at me. “And in your world friends can fuck around and still be friends, yeah?”

  I nod. Eddie and I are living proof. “Is that enough for you? Friends? Does this sort of thing fly in your world?”

  He reaches across the center console and fists a hand in my shirt, tugging me closer. His dark eyes glitter in the dim light filtering through the windshield. “I want you. Come inside.”

  The aggressive move coupled with that invitation is enough to make me flushed and hot all over. I nod and turn off the car.

  We don’t talk on our way into his house. He unlocks the door and takes my hand, tugging me through. Anticipation tingles down my spine as he reaches around me to lock up. Is he going to kiss me? I whimper, push against him in invitation. His gaze meets mine, and he smiles again, his upturned lips barely visible in the dark.

  “Is it like this for you?” He presses his body against me, chest-to-chest, dick-to-dick, and fuck, he’s definitely hard.

  “Yeah. God, yeah.” I nod and he steps away. His hand finds mine again and he starts to lead me toward the stairwell.

  “No,” I murmur, “can we … your rug?”

  He grins, a flash of white teeth barely visible. “Go get naked; I’ll light the fire.”

  I start taking off my clothes, shrugging out of my shirt before I realize he’s totally bossing me around. Startled, I stop and watch him turn on the fireplace—gas, thank fuck because I don’t want to wait for him to build a fire.

  When he turns, I’m still standing, shirt in my hands, watching him.

  “Something wrong?” He reaches for me. “Come here.”

  Orders again, damn. I go, dropping my shirt at the edge of the rug.