A bottle of tequila sat empty on the log stump that was his coffee table. The TV was a blue screen that warned it had no signal from the gaming console. A bowl of popcorn sat untouched on the kitchen counter. He grimaced and went to check his phone.
Sarah had asked him if he wanted to meet up for coffee. He wasn't sure he did want to go, to be honest, but he hadn't seen Sarah or Marceline in a while and he was bored. He had been working so hard at the mill that he felt like he wasn't himself if he wasn't working anymore. Dad had always said, “Hard work makes a man, Jamie.”
Jameson supposed he was lucky, as he showered and dressed. His dad had pushed outdated gender roles on him, but at least he had been okay with him being gay. He had even been supportive, in his own way. When Jameson brought home boyfriends instead of girlfriends, his dad had been friendly, chatted with them amiably, included them in family time.
God, how long had it been since he had a boyfriend anyway? Or a fling? A one-night-stand? A date? How long had it been since he'd gotten laid? He didn't know. As far back as he could remember, his life was twelve-hour days at the mill.
Jameson grabbed his keys and walked to the front door of his apartment, slipping on his boots and tying the laces quickly. When he was done, he stood up and looked around. It was so empty.
He darted out the door, making sure to lock it. Jameson had been an athlete once, before he had been a workaholic, and he had never forgotten the control he knew he had over his own body. He was aware of where his limbs were.
He went downstairs to the coffee shop across the street. His apartment, above the candle store, always smelled a little like an essential oils convention, and it was kind of nice to smell the salt of the ocean and the crisp, clean smell of the trees. A cold rain fell around him, so he pulled up the hood of his jacket. It was his first day off in a few weeks, and he had honestly forgotten what downtown Bandon looked like during the day. It was cold, and the autumn winds were blowing a little winter their way. The ocean crashed against the rocks below the boardwalk, filling the town with a hazy sound that matched the fog.
Relieved, the barista took his money and started grabbing syrups off the shelf along the back wall.
Given that he had stressed out the barista so much, he was probably going to get something horrible. Then again, he probably deserved it. He slipped a twenty into the tip jar when the barista wasn't looking. He made absurd amounts of money, and was kind of looking for a reason to get rid of some of it. It was starting to make him uncomfortable, in a way.
Turning around, he eyed the art on the whitewashed walls. Mostly it was local stuff painted on wood, not all of it great. Every year, the city had an art contest, and they hung the wood art on the guardrails along the boardwalk. Pretty much all of this was that art. It did give the place a certain colorful atmosphere, and the soft golden light that illuminated the walls was very cheerful.
When he sat down at the table, Sarah and Marceline were finishing up with their bills. They came here every weekend to pay their bills since they couldn't afford Wi-Fi of their own.
"So it's Halloween," said Marceline as she carefully studied an electric bill. The way she looked at it, you would think it was a scroll from some lost civilization. Her hair was in locks, and she wore bright red glasses with rhinestones crusted on them. They were aggressively tacky, which explained pretty much everything about the way Marceline dressed herself. Sarah was a little more conservative. She was a cardigan-and-sweater sort of person, who usually wore pretty summer dresses even if it was the dead of winter. They had all been friends since high school. "What are we doing?"
"I don't know. Don't you guys usually watch movies?"
"Well, we kind of had other plans this year."
"Obviously, or you wouldn't be asking me what we're doing."
The barista called his name, and Jameson came and grabbed his latte. Jameson tasted the coffee and winced a little. Yeah, it was pretty bad. What was that? Raspberry? Ugh.
When he got back to the table, Sarah said, "The Redhead is throwing a murder mystery party. Y'know, we all play characters and try to figure out whodunit."
Jameson's left eye squinted as his angular face wrinkled into an expression like doubt. "A Clue party?"
"No, it's a murder mystery party," Marceline corrected.
"It'll be fun!" said Sarah.
Marceline looked up from her bill, and said, "The bartender is hot."
Jameson very honestly said, "I don't care."
"You will."
"Are you insinuating that I will think he is hot because I'm gay?"
"I am insinuating that he is a smoking hot piece of ass and you will think he is hot for that reason, with only small consideration given to your sexuality."
Jameson considered the murder mystery party. He also considered the idea of the purportedly hot bartender. He was looking for some action, and if the bartender was interested, well, his apartment was right around the corner. Then again, he had run into this situation before, and it had not gone well that time either.
"Is the bartender gay?"
"As the day is long."
"Is the bartender just looking for a hookup?"
"I don't know, do I look like the bartender whisperer?"
"I mean… Objectively speaking, yes. A sober person wouldn't wear those glasses."
Marceline gave him a dead-eyed stare.
"Do you hate my glasses because you are gay?"
"No, I hate your glasses because they are horrifying."