Afternoon Americano (Coffee Boys Book 3) Read online

After the waiter took our orders and our menus, Skye leaned back in his seat and cocked his head at me. “So,” he said, considering me carefully, “Beth apparently thinks you’re gay?”

  I chuckled. “She knows that I date women, but in retrospect I see why she might assume I’m bisexual.”

  “Why? If you don’t mind me asking,” he added hastily.

  “I don’t mind,” I assured him. For the most part, I considered myself an open book. Almost everyone in my life knew what I did for a living, even the more hostile members of my family. My general philosophy was that if anyone had a problem with the way I chose to make my living, we weren’t going to get along anyway and it wasn’t worth trying to keep them around.

  Well, apart from my 90-year-old grandmother. She had no clue about what I did, and I intended to keep it that way. Who wants to have that conversation?

  “I’m an author of gay romance novels,” I said.

  Skye’s eyes widened. “Wow. As a hobby, or is it your career?”

  “Career. I’ve been writing full-time for almost 5 years now. I do a little freelance editing on the side, but the bulk of my income comes from my books.

  “That’s really cool,” he said, his eyes bright. “I can see why that might give the wrong impression, though. Are your books…explicit?”

  “Most of them, yes,” I said, ducking my head. It wasn’t that I was ashamed of them, exactly—it was just a little awkward to be discussing the fact that I write about ‘aching hardness’ and ‘sweat-slick skin’ over a plate of spring rolls.

  He leaned forward, grinning at me. “You’ve got to tell me your pen name,” he said, all delight. “I’ve been looking for some new books to read.”

  “I, ah,” I stammered, not sure why I was suddenly feeling awkward. “I don’t generally share my pen name with anyone but close friends. It’s just…habit. Sorry.” This was a conversation I’d had a thousand times—my pen name was my own business, and I’d trained myself out of feeling guilty about keeping it that way.

  But something about the way he looked at me, about the openness and eagerness in his expression, made me want to tell him all my secrets.

  If he was offended, he didn’t show it. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to work on becoming your friend, then.”

  I gave a soft laugh. “I guess I can’t argue with that strategy.”

  We chatted easily while we waited for the waiter to come back with our food. I was surprised by how easy it was to talk to Skye. He had this open, carefree way of talking, like everything was delightful, that drew me into the conversation effortlessly.

  “So,” he said, “what do you like to do while you’re not writing about gay debauchery?”

  I scratched my head as I struggled for an answer. “I…haven’t really had a lot of time for hobbies lately. I’ve been trying to take the next step in my career, to increase my output and build up my catalog, and I’ve been a little single-minded about it.”

  “You’re sort of a workaholic, then?”

  “Not really. Or I haven’t been in the past, anyway. This is kind of a new thing for me, trying to up my game.”

  “Okay, so what did you like to do before? When you had no game?” He gave me a lopsided little smirk.

  “Hey!” I puffed up my chest and put on a look of mock offense. “I’ve always had game. It’s just that I wanted more game.” I thought for a few seconds, trying to remember what it was like to have a life beyond bleeding words onto the page.

  Oh god, that sounded so overdramatic. Maybe I needed to stop being such a writer and get out more.

  “I used to be pretty into fencing,” I finally said. “I took lessons for a few years. I been meaning to get back into it. Probably will once this next book is released.”

  Skye rested his chin on his hands. “Fencing, huh? That’s pretty cool, hitting people with swords.”

  “Foils,” I corrected automatically, then kicked myself for being a pedantic nut job. “I, um, yeah… I fenced epee for a while—that’s the long thin kind where you’re just trying to hit with the tip—and then tried saber, but I didn’t like it too much. Saber is more brutal, where I feel like epee is a little more like…a dance, almost.”

  “You really are a creative type,” he said, his voice dancing with amusement. “Demanding poetry in everything you do.”

  The way he said it was lightly teasing, but there was also a sort of admiration in it. Like he was actually meaning to compliment me. I shifted a little in my seat, suddenly wondering if Skye had forgotten that this wasn’t actually a date.

  “I’m not really that poetic,” I said weakly. “So, what about you? What do you like to do in your free time?”

  “Anything and everything,” he said with a sigh. “I’m kind of notoriously fickle. Most recently I’ve been getting really into rock climbing.”

  “That sounds fun,” I said. “Where do you even go to do that? Are there cliffs hiding away in the depths of St. Louis?”

  He left. “Oh no, I haven’t been doing it long enough yet to feel confident claiming actual rocks. There’s a climbing gym that I go to over by Union Station. They have a bunch of indoor walls that you can practice on.”

  I’d been living in the city all my life, but it seemed like I was always learning new things about it. For all that it was a small Midwestern city, I often had to be reminded that it was still a city with all sorts of hidden nooks and crannies waiting to be explored.

  “I’ll have to go there one of these days,” I said. “I’ve always been kind of curious about rock climbing, but never been brave enough to try.”

  “You should totally come with me sometime,” he said, his smile warm and genuine. “They have a couple of auto-belays, but for the most part, you need to bring a partner. And climbing is always more fun with a buddy to cheer you on.”

  We’d hardly know each other a half hour, and he was already talking like it was a given that we were going to be best friends. Was he really that determined to find out my pen name?

  It didn’t sound like a bad idea, though. Skye seemed like the kind of guy that it would be fun to be friends with. He was sweet and easygoing, with this relaxed attitude that made you feel like everything was just…no big deal.

  “Yeah, that sounds fun,” I said with a nod. Heck, why not? At least I’d be able to say that I had actually been rock climbing.

  I realized as we drifted off into a long segue about nothing in particular that if Skye had been a woman, this would’ve been a really promising start to the date. We had a lot in common, and talking was comfortable—I’d certainly had far worse and far more awkward first dates.

  Too bad I’m not into guys, I thought with a wry smile. I might be getting lucky tonight after all.

  When the waiter dropped off our meal, he took a deep breath over his pho and let it out in a long sigh of pleasure that was practically pornographic. Something about it made a little part of me sit up and go, “wait, what?”

  It was suddenly easy to imagine hearing those sounds in another context.

  I forced my mind out of the gutter, feeling a little ashamed of myself. Clearly my work was starting to have an effect on me. I’d gotten so comfortable thinking about the mechanics of gay sex that it was almost second nature for my mind to wander into it.

  “God, I love pho,” he said with a dreamy sigh. He pronounced it, like a lot of people do, with a long O, like “toe.”

  I was glad for the distraction from my unexpectedly dirty thoughts. “It’s actually pronounced ‘phuh,’” I said, taking a quick sniff of my own bowl. He wasn’t kidding—this stuff really did smell heavenly. “I used to work with this Vietnamese woman who mocked me mercilessly for getting it wrong.”

  I could see a sort of realization dawning on Skye’s face. His eyes went wide and he burst into laughter. “Oh, wow. That puts something into a totally different context. Back when I lived in Seattle, there was a place I like to go to called Pho King.”

  I snickered. “Please tell me they had a signature dish.”

  “They sure did,” he said, unable to hold back his giggles. “The Pho King Special Bowl.”

  “‘Ah, yes, young man,’” I said, putting on a snooty voice and waving a hand in the air, “‘I would like to have your finest Pho King bowl.’”

  Skye played along immediately, perking up with a bright tone. “‘Would you like to try a plate of Pho King spring rolls with that?’”

  “‘No thank you,’” I said, holding back laughter. “I don’t like your Pho King spring rolls. But if you would be so kind as to give me a pot of Pho King tea…’”

  We both descended into a giggling fit at that, drawing curious looks from nearby tables. I tried to compose myself and start in on my food, but laughter kept bubbling out at random intervals, and Skye was just as affected. I’d forgotten how much fun it could be to revel in lowbrow humor like that.

  Eventually we got ourselves under control again, and were able to get back to regular conversation. It was just as easy and comfortable as before, and the time sort of slipped away from me before I realized it. Suddenly the waiter was dropping off our check, and I realized that the sinking feeling in my chest was disappointment.

  We settled up the bill—splitting it halfway down the middle without even having to discuss it—and headed toward the door.

  Suddenly I felt strange—almost desperate, like I was craving something just out of reach. I realized with a slight shock that I didn’t want the night to end.

  You’ve been spending too long with your face stuck in a manuscript, I thought. Skye was fun and easy to talk to, but it was a little bit pathetic that I felt so frantic when I thought about us going our separate ways. Clearly I needed more friends.

  No, that wasn’t it at all—I had plenty
of friends. What I needed was a partner in crime. Someone to share my time with who really got me. Someone I felt truly comfortable with.

  I had to grudgingly admit that it might be time to finally get back in the dating game for real again. It was a torturous prospect at first glance, but it wasn’t that complicated—I just needed to find someone who was pretty much exactly like Skye, only not a guy.

  How hard could that be?

  CHAPTER 3

  SKYE

  I couldn’t tell if this was the best or the worst date I’d ever been on.

  I mean, on the surface it looked just about perfect. Vincent was hot, in that “I don’t work out, but I have a naturally ridiculous metabolism” way, and he turned out to be smart and funny and interesting too. Given my normal dating patterns, you would think that I would be all over him.

  But then there was the pesky problem of him being straight. As sole flaws for a person to have go, that one is usually a little bit of a dealbreaker.

  So it was kind of the worst date ever, because I had all this temptation sitting right in front of me, and I couldn’t do anything about it. I tried to have a good time on the date (okay, the not-a-date), but every time I started feeling like I might be okay with the idea of just having this guy as a friend, or even an acquaintance, my eye would be drawn again to the full curve of his lower lip and the tiny little divot in his chin that I wanted to trace with my tongue.

  Believe me, I knew full well what a terrible idea it was to be lusting after a straight guy. But the problem was, not only was he hot, but he was also just so nice that I couldn’t help being drawn to him. Our conversation over dinner had been fun and light—we never talked about anything too serious, but it was enjoyable in a way that most of my dates haven’t been in a long time.

  Well, that was probably because this wasn’t actually a date. There was no pressure, no stakes. I could just enjoy myself.

  We finished our meal and headed out into the brisk evening, and there was a moment of awkwardness where neither of us were quite sure what to say. I knew what I would be doing if this were a date—inviting him back to my place, probably, under the pretense of a nightcap or a cup of coffee, and do my best to get him out of his clothes. That plan was probably not going to go over very well tonight.

  But as we stood there in the cool night air, I felt a tug of longing, and some part of me grasped for any way to keep things going, to not let the night and.

  “Hey, all awkwardness aside, I had a really good time tonight. If you want to hang out for a little while longer, maybe we could go grab a drink at the Blackthorn?”

  His brow furrowed, and he chewed distractingly on his lip for a second. What the hell was I doing? That wasn’t the sort of thing that you say to a totally platonic straight bro, right? I really had no idea anymore—I lived my life in a pretty carefully maintained rainbow-colored LGBT bubble.

  I was about to take it back, to babble something about how no, that was a stupid idea, when he gave a quick nod and said, “Sure, I’d love to.”

  Well, this was confusing. Half of me was jumping for joy because I was getting a little bit more time with him, and the other half of me was trying to strangle that half because honestly, what was I thinking? This guy was straight, and I’d been lusting after him all night. Voluntarily putting myself in his presence for another couple of hours was an exercise in masochism.

  Vincent gave me a little smile that kind of lit me up inside. Well, guess I’m a masochist now.

  We wandered over to the Blackthorn and got settled in with our drinks, but then a crushingly awkward silence descended on us. We’ve been chatting so easily at the restaurant that I kind of assumed it would continue here, and I wondered if maybe we were both suddenly realizing that this might be stretching the boundaries of “not a date.”

  Suddenly a thought occurred to me, and I snapped my fingers. “I can’t believe we got through an entire dinner without asking the standard St. Louis ‘get to know you’ question. Where did—”

  “—you go to high school?” he finished with me, chuckling into his beer.

  “It’s obligatory,” I said with a shrug. “I don’t make the rules. I went to Central Visual and Performing Arts—which, yes, it’s absurdly stereotypical. I guess my early indoctrination into musical theatre should have clued everyone in that I would turn out super gay. What about you?”

  “I didn’t go to school,” he said with a self-conscious shuffle. “My parents were kind of crazy religious and overprotective, and they insisted that I be homeschooled to avoid the ‘corrupting influence of a decadent society,’” he said with a over-the-top accent that dripped derision.

  I nearly choked on my beer. “Okay, now I’m really confused. How do you go from a background like that into writing about gay sex for living?”

  “I’m not sure I know how to answer that question without going into my whole life story,” he said with a soft chuckle.

  I shrugged. “I’ve got nowhere to be tonight.”

  “Okay, if you really want to hear it.” I waved a hand imperiously in the air in a “go on” gesture. His mouth quirked in a smile. “It was a combination of a few things, really. I had this friend, Charlie—he was another homeschooled kid that I hung out with sometimes, and we were really close. His parents were a lot more open-minded than mine were, and by the time we got into our teens, he started realizing that he was gay. He confessed to me eventually, but we both decided it was best to keep it quiet for a while.”

  With an understanding nod, I said, “Your parents probably wouldn’t have been too thrilled about you being corrupted by a gay kid.”

  “Exactly.” He took a swig of his beer and put it back down with a sour look. “When I was around 15 or 16, my relationship with my parents started to deteriorate. Even as sheltered as I was, I started seeing bits and pieces of the world outside my little bubble, and wondering why my parents had tried to keep it from me. I discovered the internet, and I started exploring my repressed sexuality by writing dirty stories.” He gave a wry chuckle and shook his head. “They were terrible—exactly the quality level you would expect from a teenager who had no idea what sex was really like. I’m pretty sure nobody ever actually read them. But through the writing, I started to get involved in online communities and meet other writers, and it really started opening my eyes to the whole world of possibilities out there.”

  Vincent took a deep breath, gazing off thoughtfully into space. “A month or so before I turned 18, Charlie finally came out. My parents were horrified; they forbade me from having any further contact with him and threatened to kick me out of the house if I disobeyed. I was a scared teenager with poor social skills and few job prospects, so I’m kind of ashamed to say that I did as I was told.”

  “You don’t have to be ashamed of that,” I said, shaking my head. “Taking a stand against your parents can be scary as hell, especially when you’re young and have a lot to lose.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I keep telling myself,” he said with a sigh. “Charlie went off to college in another state, and I never saw him again. But this anger still stuck around—this rage at my parents for cutting such a positive thing out of my life for no good reason. I started to get really rebellious—well, rebellious by sheltered homeschooled kid standards—and look for ways to skirt the rules and piss off my parents without blatantly doing anything to their faces.”

  “A pentagram tattoo on your forehead probably would’ve been going too far.”

  Vincent snickered at me, bumping his shoulder into mine. “It would’ve been easier, though. That was when I really started taking my writing seriously. Instead of just scribbling down random fantasies, I started paying attention to the craft of it and I wrote my damn fingers off. Most of it was still crap, but I was improving.

  “There was this one story I wrote that I was really proud of, and I started showing it to a lot of other writers. One of them gave me some great feedback, and I wrote back to her for help, and we somehow became really good friends. When we got to talking, I found out that this person I had been chatting with online was actually a successful published gay romance author.

  “That was when something just sort of clicked. I loved writing, and I loved pissing off my parents, so what could be better then launching myself into a career that would horrify them?”