CHAPTER TWENTY
Almost six weeks post-Thorne, on a Friday afternoon, Riley entered his apartment covered in flour. He’d been making tarts with Susan and all he wanted now was to take a shower and spend the night watching sad movies and moping, same as every Friday night since his non-relationship with Thorne had ended.
Marc looked up from his tablet and announced, “We’re going out tonight.”
“What? No, I’m not ready.”
“You’re never going to feel ready, but we’ve cried enough. It’s time to get out there and fuck those assholes out of our systems.”
That was how Marc had always handled breakups, and unlike Riley, he’d had his share. The fact that it had been weeks since he’d been with another man showed Riley just how much Marc had felt for Hamilton, the son of a bitch who’d lured him to California so he’d have a convenient lay, not to mention a housekeeper, until he found someone out there. Hamilton made Thorne look like a saint, a mixed-up, closeted, arrogant, privileged saint, but still.
“I don’t want to fuck anyone,” Riley confessed, sounding far whinier than he’d meant to.
Marc arched a brow.
How did Marc always know exactly what he was thinking? “Fine. I don’t want to fuck anyone but Thorne.”
“Are you going to be celibate for the rest of your life?”
Riley glared at him.
“Either call him or come out with me.”
Riley frowned. “Call him? You actually think I should?”
“You’re the one who said—”
Riley didn’t let him finish. “No, I’m not calling him.”
“Then how long are you going to wait to get back out there?”
Riley sighed. Marc was right. He needed to at least try to see if anyone else appealed to him. He’d never know if he stayed home.
“All right. I’ll go. I don’t promise to do anything but window-shop, but you’re right. I need to get out of the house.”
“Enough tequila and you’ll be raring to go with some young stud.”
Any man he hooked up with would have to be young, since he immediately compared all older men to Thorne. “Enough tequila and I’ll be on the floor with a limp dick.”
“Bullshit, you’ve never been unable to get it up.”
True. Alcohol rarely affected him that way. But no way was he drinking while Marc was on the prowl, because if he got drunk and Marc wasn’t there to stop him, Riley just might give in to the urge to call Thorne.
***
THORNE FLIPPED THROUGH the clothes in his closet, frowning at everything he saw. He could wear something that made him look like he was trying to appear ten—if not twenty—years younger. Or, he could wear something that screamed sugar daddy. Maybe his lack of appropriate clothing was a sign that going to a club at his age was a terrible idea, but he chose to ignore it. Eventually, he settled on a black turtleneck sweater and some dark jeans that were tight enough to show off his ass but not so tight they looked obscene.
When the car service pulled up to the club he’d chosen, the driver looked at him curiously. “You’re sure this is the place?”
“I’m sure.”
“Okay, then. What time should I be back?”
“I’ll call.”
“Yes, sir.”
Music from the club vibrated in Thorne’s chest even from the curb. He was truly too old for this.
Don’t turn back now. You can’t put this off forever.
He wouldn’t put off sex forever, but he didn’t have to prowl around a club, looking for an anonymous fuck. He was out of the closet now. Shouldn’t he be looking for something a little less dark and suspicious?
He frowned at the surroundings once he was inside, even more certain he’d made a mistake. It didn’t look like it had been cleaned in weeks. The barstool he chose was sticky on the side. He did not want to think about that. There was a small, artificial Christmas tree behind the bar. Now that it was right in front of him, he realized it was covered in penis lights. Yep, this was definitely a mistake.
But Thorne’s need to finish anything he started forced him to stay where he was and order a bourbon on the rocks. It was an old man’s drink, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to drink some of the cocktails he saw in the hands of the younger men. They looked like they were radioactive.
Thorne took a sip of his reliable drink and scanned the crowd. Most of the men looked Dash’s age or even younger. No doubt many of them probably were there on false IDs. Several of them had bodies that were true works of art. Before he’d met Dash, he would have been more than happy to take one of them home, but now all he did was compare them. Not a single one measured up. Apparently, Dash hadn’t been kidding when he’d promised to ruin Thorne for other men. If he knew how well he’d done his job, Dash would have a good laugh at his perfect revenge.
“Hi, Daddy, you looking for a boy?” A skinny redhead in leather pants slithered onto the stool next to Thorne, moving in a way that made him appear boneless. He also appeared to be about eighteen.
Thorne shook his head. “I’m not the man you’re looking for.”
“You could be. You want a sample?”
“No thank y—” He froze mid-sentence. Marc and Dash had just walked in the door. It had never occurred to him that he’d see Dash there. And what the hell was Marc doing back in town? He should go before one of them noticed him. But he was paralyzed, unable to stop watching Dash.
“You with them?” Skinny Boy asked, following his stare. “They’re fucking hot.”
“No, but I’d like to be, with one of them, anyway.” Why the hell had Thorne told a stranger that?
“Good luck.” The boy oozed back off the stool and sauntered off.
Thorne watched Marc and Dash approach the bar.
Leave. Turn around.
But he was too late.
Marc sat on the recently vacated stool next to him, while Dash remained standing. “I never expected to see you slumming it here,” Marc said.
Thorne glanced at Dash. His eyes were wide, and he held himself as though ready to flee.
“I’ve never been here before, thought I’d give it a try.” Thorne wasn’t sure how he forced the words out. Having Dash so close made it hard to breathe, much less speak.
“Not paying for it these days?” Marc asked.
“No, I decided that wasn’t working out for me.” He looked at Dash as he spoke, and Dash pretended to see right through him.
“I see.” Marc turned to Dash. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Yeah. Anything that’s fucking strong.”
“You got it.” Marc headed to the far end of the bar, a better spot to catch the bartender’s attention.
After Marc departed, Thorne inclined his head toward the empty stool beside him. With obvious reluctance, Dash sat down.
“I’m sorry,” Thorne said, not knowing what else to do.
He thought Dash might pretend he couldn’t hear. Instead, he gave Thorne a curt nod.
Say something. “Do you want to dance?”
“No.”
That had been stupid. “Dash, I never meant—”
“To hurt me. To insult me. I want to believe that, but even if I do, I can’t see you again. I just fucking can’t…” He walked away into the crowd.
Marc returned holding two bright-green drinks. “Where’s Riley?”
Thorne motioned toward the dance floor where Dash was now sandwiched between a beautiful man with dark skin and dreadlocks and the twink who’d hit on Thorne.
“You hurt him,” Marc said, settling on the stool next to Thorne.
“I know.”
“You still want him?”
Thorne nodded, unable to deny it.
“Then don’t give up.”
Marc walked away before Thorne could ask him what he meant by that. Thorne had seen pain in Dash’s eyes. Marc might think he knew what he was talking about, but Thorne didn’t see Dash forgiving him anytime soon, not before it was too late. It wouldn’t take Dash long to meet someone more suited to him than Thorne.
Thorne drained his bourbon, tossed some money on the bar, and walked out, alone. Was that how he would live the rest of his life? Alone? Maybe that was what he deserved.
***
Thorne came out to his parents at Thanksgiving, or as his mother saw it, he “ruined” Thanksgiving. From his perspective, it was one of the best family holidays ever.
The next day, Friday, he phoned Sheila and scheduled a companion for the night. He was going to conquer his obsession with Dash.
Lachlan, the dark-haired man who showed up at his door, was beautiful. Thorne invited him in for coffee, and they talked. He found out Lachlan was majoring in business, and they had a lovely discussion about management techniques. Then Thorne paid him, sent him on his way, and jacked off to memories of Dash, once in bed and once in the shower.
***
Two weeks after Thanksgiving, Thorne donned his tux and prepared to attend the Arts Council’s holiday party. Memories of Dash in the tux Thorne had bought assaulted him. He’d been gorgeous, perfect. And yet Thorne had forced him to pretend to be Thorne’s friend, not his lover. If he could do that over, if he could have Dash at his side now…
He slammed the mirrored door of his closet and turned away. He didn’t want to do this. The party was at the art museum, and he’d think of nothing but that final night with Dash. He couldn’t cancel though. Peggy had asked him to say a few words to the other donors. And Kathryn would be there. They’d been spending a lot more time together, and he’d managed to convince her to do some work for the membership committee. She would help him get through the night.
Thorne glanced at the clock. Time to go. When he got to the lobby, he remembered that he hadn’t checked his mail the night before. There was a card in his box. The envelope was red, making him think it was a holiday card, but it had no return address. He was about to stash it in his jacket pocket when something made him change his mind and open it. On the front was a picture of three camels crossing the desert, presumably carrying the three wise men. Inside, there was a holiday message, but he ignored it and read the words written in an angular scrawl. “End his dry spell before Susan or I kill him. He deserves a Merry Christmas.” It was signed Marc.
Thorne’s heart pounded so hard he feared he might keel over. There was no question who “he” was. Holy fuck! Marc was telling Thorne to go after Dash. But it had been less than a month since he’d seen Dash at the club, and Dash had said he couldn’t be around Thorne.
His eyes said something different.
No. Thorne was going to respect what he said. He tore the card and threw it in the trashcan by the lobby doors. The little pieces fluttered, some catching on the rim. Thorne immediately began to reconsider. Dry spell? Did that truly mean Dash hadn’t been with anyone else? He’d assumed Dash had taken someone home from the club the night they saw each other, that he’d been hooking up routinely. If he hadn’t, then was he hurting too? Could they heal each other?
***
Christmas piano music filled the reception hall with its tinkly joy. Smiling, glittering people moved around one another, talking animatedly. But Thorne sat by himself. He’d talked no more that evening than social obligation dictated. More than once he’d been asked if he was feeling okay. After dismissing Peggy’s concerns with a flippant answer about possibly coming down with something, he’d given his speech, hoping it didn’t sound as flat as he felt. Then he’d wandered the room, halfheartedly looking for Kathryn in the crowd. When he couldn’t locate her, he settled on a bench near the spot where he and Dash had stood after he’d punched the shit out of Collins; that had felt so good. The painting Dash had picked out had arrived a few days after he’d left, and it still sat in Thorne’s guest room, wrapped up, waiting.
I want him back.
The thought startled Thorne, not the sentiment—he’d wanted Dash back since the moment he’d walked out the door—but the fact that for the first time, he considered actually fighting for him.
Kathryn found him a few moments later. He patted the space beside him, and she sat. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. No. If you had to win Derek back, what would you do?”
“Win him back?”
Thorne’s mind was moving too fast to stop for a long explanation. “Just say, God forbid, something happened and you split up.”
“Are you finally ready to fight for Dash?”
“Maybe. Yes.”
“Hmm.” Kathryn pondered the question. “I’d recreate some important memory, like our first date or the trip we took on our tenth anniversary.”
“We didn’t have a first date or really any dates but…special moments. We had plenty of those.” Thorne thought about the time he’d spent with Dash. It was only a few months, but it felt like so much longer. Sailing together. That had been special. “It’s too cold to go sailing,” he mused.
Kathryn nodded in agreement.
They hadn’t been out that many times. They’d spent much more time inside, lying around, watching movies.
Suddenly, he knew exactly what he should do. Please let this work.