The Cushman Row townhouses were each five stories high. Most owners rented the uppermost floors and Stef’s mother, Rory Finch, was no exception. She and Lilia lived on the parlor and third floors, while Stef had the garden apartment. The fourth and fifth stories were rented to professional couples without children or pets. The attic had a small bathroom and technically could be used as living space, but it was filled with Rory’s junk at present and she had no desire to haul it out.
The townhouse had been in Rory’s family since the 1850s. Stef’s father, Marcus, had no claim to it during the divorce, but brotherly tensions were tight and bitter from the unspoken understanding the property would be left to Stef someday. Stef knew it was just as likely Rory could leave the house to some charity or turn it into a museum. It was best never to get too set on what you thought Rory would do with her life.
Still, it was a beautiful apartment and Stef took exceedingly good care of it. In turn, it soothed and comforted him after long, hard days at sea, navigating terrified young men.
The American Finches who made pianos descended from Danish Finks who made cabinetry and furniture. An eye for a clean, classical line was in Stef’s DNA, and his minimalist taste let the open floor plan and garden view speak for themselves. Clutter and frills irritated him. The only reckless mess he liked was the creative process. Where he lived, ate and slept, he liked it neat.
He popped a beer and took to the sectional couch with his laptop, answering a few emails. He always sat on the side oriented toward the fireplace, not the one facing the TV. Stef didn’t watch much primetime. His job was stressful enough without getting bogged down in the problems of fictional characters. His visual nature sucked him into a storyline while his analytical, insightful nature started digging into and sorting out imaginary angst. Internalizing all the drama and brooding about it far beyond the final credits. It was like working a second shift he didn’t get paid for and could never cure. He stuck to books, which he could put down, or the radio, which he could turn down. More often than not, he chose silence.
He jumped in his skin when his phone rang, thinking it could be Jav. It was Deborah Cenk, an optometrist he’d met at a party last weekend. Did he want to have dinner tomorrow? Catch a movie?
“Sure,” he said, remembering shiny curls, big breasts and an infectious laugh.
He dealt with a few more emails, then shut his laptop, put it aside and closed his eyes, exhaling. His mind combed through the day’s images, sorting and lingering on little details. The couch put arms around him. His mind unraveled at the edges and he slept.
The ping of an incoming message dumped him out of the snooze. He lunged for the phone. It squirmed out of one hand and through the other, laughing in his face as it slid between two sections of the couch and clattered onto the floor beneath. He had to shove aside the coffee table and hit the deck on his stomach, thrust an arm under to drag it out. All that hassle and it was only Thomas, wanting to hang out.
Still foggy with sleep, Stef chewed his bottom lip and ran fingers through his hair. He knew Thomas from grad school days. They networked professionally and their social circles overlapped in a few places.
He was also something of a fuck buddy.
Stef considered the invitation. The buzz of meeting Jav was still crackling in his veins, and no doubt a few beers would take it from pleasant high to horny itch. Part of him was hesitant to dilute the day’s pleasure with Thoma-drama. It seemed…cheap.
Honestly, it felt like cheating.
Which was the dumbest thing he’d ever heard of.
I don’t know, he typed back, hedging. Long day. Kind of beat.
Thom persisted, as Stef knew he would. Come on, it’s been forever since I saw your cute ass.
A sucker for being validated, he agreed to meet up for a beer. Just one. Maybe two.
Of course, some other buddies showed up and he had about five. A good time, but he kept catching himself watching the door, as if Jav were due to show up as well. Typically annoyed by people who couldn’t keep their noses out of their devices in public, he kept reaching for his phone, wanting to text Jav. Wanting to make sure Jav hadn’t texted him.
Christ, who is this guy?
As he predicted, the euphoria gave way to an itchy, frustrated and fretful burn. He was hungry.
Thirsty.
“Want to split?” Thomas said, sliding a hand down Stef’s spine, into a back pocket and squeezing.
The yes stumbled on the tip of Stef’s tongue, looking over the edge into the abyss. Instead of beckoning with a seductive, crooked finger, the maw of desire crossed its arms and gave him a long, considering look.
You’re better than this.
Stef squirmed under the reproach. At the same time, something deeper within his consciousness agreed.
Wait. Just wait. Walk away. Go home. Give it a chance.
Give what a chance, he argued to himself. He’s probably straight. It was a meet, not a…thing.
But it feels like a thing.
His shoulder twitched the exchange off, annoyed. He didn’t need this shit, he needed to get laid. Yet as he stared over Thomas’s edge, into the depths beneath, he knew what he sought wasn’t down there.
He smiled at Thomas and gently shook his head. “I’m beat and I’ve got work in the morning,” he said.
“Wow, you’ve never turned me down before.”
Stef flicked his eyes toward the ceiling and finished the last of his beer.
“What’s his name?” Thomas said, his hand still caressing Stef’s ass.
“Deborah,” Stef said. “She’s an optometrist.”
Now the hand came out of the pocket. “I see.”
Stef laughed and punched Thom’s shoulder. “Good one.”