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NICK
Oliver is in the kitchen making a Bloody Mary when I walk into the apartment at noon.
“You look like shit,” he says. “That must’ve been a fucking hot night.” He smiles. “And yes, pun intended!”
I glare at him, leave my phone and keys on the kitchen table and head for the refrigerator.
“Want a cocktail?” He taps a spoon on the pitcher. “I ground the horseradish myself and used their best vodka.”
“I’m okay, thanks,” I tell him, retrieving a bottle of Perrier. “I need water, not alcohol.”
He rolls his eyes. “Is that another tip from Dede?”
“No, asshole. It’s another tip from just about everyone with half a brain.”
“Clutch your pearls, girls!” Oliver trills. “Somebody’s in a foul mood. That must mean no sex with the tattooed love god from last night.”
I glare at him as I gulp water for a few seconds. Then I put down the bottle, dry my mouth on a paper towel and flick my finger against the back of his neck.
“I’m not in a foul mood,” I say firmly. “I’m just a little discombobulated from the weird morning.”
He smiles. “Does that mean daddy woke you up with some more sweet love?”
“I wish.”
“That doesn’t sound very promising,” Oliver replies. “Tell me everything.”
I drink more water before describing the strange conversation with Blake at Dirty Secrets.
“Did he really say that?” Oliver asks when I finish. “‘Good luck with your sugar daddy’?”
“Yep. Those exact words.”
“Well, that’s pretty fucking rude.” Oliver sips his Blood Mary. “Someone should tell that queen that—”
“He’s not a queen,” I say quickly. “In fact, he’s the exact opposite.”
Oliver grimaces. “Oh, honey! Those are the worst kind of queens. They go out in the world looking all rough and tumble with bulging muscles and deep, booming voices. But the second you get them in the bed, they’re squealing like a little girl and wearing all kinds of Agent Provocateur. Do you remember Colby’s ex?”
I don’t, but I nod. “What’s Agent Provocateur?”
Oliver’s face lights up. “Oh, they’ve got the best lingerie on the planet! It’s a British company that Jean-Michel introduced me to. Just truly, totally, positively high glamour for days!”
“I’m sure you looked spectacular in it,” I say.
His eyes go wide. “Looked? As in past tense? I’ve got every stitch of it in the other room, doll. Want a little fashion show later?”
I shake my head. “I’ll pass, but thanks.”
“You’d just be jealous anyway,” he says with a sigh. “Wondering why your big new tattooed daddy didn’t surprise you with a pair of ding dong briefs or a babydoll wrap with marabou trim.”
“Okay, I may regret this later,” I say, “but what are ding dong briefs?”
I didn’t think it was possible, but Oliver’s eyes widen even more. “They’re just the best,” he gushes. “Picture this, okay? Black sheer mesh briefs with scalloped edges along the waist, a little bow in front and ribbon ties on both sides with pompoms.”
“Wow!” I try not to laugh. “Those sound—”
“Hold up!” Oliver cuts in. “The best part is on the back. They use metallic thread to embroider the words ‘ding dong’ right across your perky little butt.”
“Well, like I started to say, those sound so you, Ollie.”
He mumbles a few colorful words while giving me the evil eye. Then he returns the vodka to the freezer and sits down at the table.
“So?” he says, sipping from his glass.
“So what?”
“How was the tattooed stud?” he asks.
“Amazing,” I reply. “He’s the most incredible man that I’ve ever met.”
“More incredible than me?” Oliver’s lower lip juts out. “More incredible than your best friend in the whole wide world?”
“Not now,” I say. “I can’t do that weirdness right now.”
“It’s not weirdness, babe. I was joking.”
I lean back against the counter and drink from the bottle until it’s nearly empty.
“Was there anything about me that you didn’t tell Adam last night?”
Oliver furrows his brow. “What are you talking about?”
“Your little chat by the bar in the main room,” I reply. “You told him my name and a bunch of personal details.”
He rolls his eyes “I didn’t tell him anything top secret. Just your name and the fact that you’re a painter. Maybe he’s psychic or something.”
“What all did you guys talk about?”
“Relax, babe. We chatted about the club and how his la di da rich BFF owns the place and how Adam’s an architect and—”
“Then how did he know my name?” I demand. “Who told him that I’m from Colorado? And that I used to live in Jersey City?”
Oliver puckers his mouth. “Um, maybe Mr. Hunk-O-Rama reads minds.”
“I’m serious,” I say. “Besides my name, Adam knew a bunch of stuff about me.”
“I don’t know what to tell you.” Oliver sips his drink again. “Besides your name, the only thing that he asked me was if we were lovers.”
I blurt out a laugh. “You’re fucking kidding me!”
He glowers at me. “I don’t get you, Nick. You meet a hot daddy. You have mind-blowing sex. You find out that the guy is clairvoyant. And you get all pissy about it? Think of how amazing it’ll be the next time you hookup with him: he’ll know in advance whether or not you want to be spanked, bound and gagged or diapered—all without a peep on your part!”
“Don’t do that either,” I say. “I’m really not in the mood for silliness. I just want to drink some water, take a shower and then go to bed.”
He smiles. “Your place or his?”
I frown. “What?”
“Are you going to Adam’s place,” he says, “or is he coming here?”
“It’s not like that.” But wouldn’t that be fucking perfect? “I’m going to bed by myself to catch up on the sleep that I didn’t get last night.”
Oliver jumps around, clapping his hands and wiggling his hips. “I knew it! I knew it! I just fucking knew it!”
“You knew what?”
“That you guys would hit it off,” he says. “When Adam came up and started talking to me last night, I had a feeling in my gut that you and he would be a wonderful match. I mean, to be perfectly honest, there was a moment where I secretly thought he was coming over to talk to me. You know? Like, he was interested in what I have to offer. But then I thought, Shut the fuck up, Oliver. A man that hot is not going to be into a slightly chubby guy with thinning hair, questionable posture and one foot on the slippery slope toward Double Chin City.”
“But I thought you met someone last night,” I say. “Isn’t that what you texted me?”
“It was positively horrendous!” He heaves another sigh. “I mean, you’ve heard about the Hindenberg and the Titanic and The Bubonic Plague, right?”
I smile, nodding silently.
“Well, my experience last night with Stanley was worse! It was literally the single most dreadful night of my entire fucking life.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. “What happened?”
Oliver starts to answer, but his voice cracks.
“I’ve never seen you like this,” I tell him. “It must’ve been really…well, we don’t need to dwell on the bad stuff. Just tell me that you’re okay. He didn’t, like, hit you or anything, did he?”
“No,” Oliver answers. “He fell asleep.”
“Oh, so…”
“Nothing,” he says. “No kissing. No touching. No sucking. No fucking. I told Stanley that I was going into the bathroom to freshen up a little. And I was gone for maybe, like, forty minutes. And when I got back into the bedroom, he was snoring so loudly the panes of glass in the window were rattling!”
I blurt out a laugh.
“It’s not funny!” Oliver shouts. “The guy was snoring and drooling and farting in his sleep! I mean, can you believe it?” He runs both hands up and down his sides. “You get this much hotness behind closed doors and you have the fucking gall to fucking fall asleep?”
“What about before he dozed off?”
“What about it?” He thinks for a moment or two. “Well, you know, it wasn’t awful. Stanley knows a lot about business and finance, which I totally need help with now that Jean-Michel turned out to be a troll. But I wanted to get laid last night.”
“Maybe tonight,” I suggest. “If you can find another invite, maybe you can go back to Dirty Secrets and find a different hot daddy to get into trouble with.”
He takes a long sip of his Bloody Mary. “No way, José! I’m done with that shit for a while. I told myself that if I didn’t meet a good guy last night, I was going to spend some time alone and figure out what the fuck I’m doing wrong.”
“Hey, now!” I hurry over and give him a hug. “You’re not doing anything wrong. You’ve just had a little run of bad luck.”
He sticks out his tongue. “A little run? I dazzled that motherfucker last night, babe. I was witty. I was articulate. And I was charming. And what did I get? An old geezer who fell sleep. And before that? I gave Jean-Michel two of my best years. I loved him. I worshiped him. And I fucking ran that household like Mary Fucking Poppins. And what did I get? Tossed out into the alley like yesterday’s trash. I’m done with it all for a while!”
“Well, what’re you going to do then?”
“For the rest of my life?” he asks.
“I was thinking more about tonight,” I say.
His mouth flickers with a faint smile. “Well, I’m going to drink that pitcher of Bloody Marys. Then I’m going to take a bubble bath. Then I’m going to order Thai food. And then I’m going to watch The Golden Girls until I fall asleep.”
“Sounds pretty perfect,” I say.
“Want to join me?”
I shake my head. “Wish I could, but I’m working for Dede tonight.”
“See? Even my friends desert me during my hour of need.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” I say. “Slather on the guilt and pour on the shame.”
He takes a few more sips of his drink. “They say you should stick with what you’re good at, babe,” Oliver says. “And I’ve learned to be very, very, very good at both guilt and shame.”