Chapter 1
Austin
I stare at the embossed invitation in my hands, feeling utterly sick to my stomach. The cheerful gold letters invite me to Join Us in Celebrating the Union of Harold Brewer and Martin Sacs on the Fourteenth of February 2019. If I wasn’t so sure I was about to vomit, I might find it in me to giggle and wonder if my ex is really about to become Harry Sacs.
It’s not like I haven’t had time to process the news of the wedding; I got the invitation a month ago and the save the date long before that. But it still hits me like a kick in the stomach every time I look at it. Why I didn’t throw it directly into the trash when it came, I can’t say. Maybe because part of me was entertaining the idea of showing up and proving to Harry that I’m fine, that he didn’t break me all those years ago, even if he kind of did.
Who invites their ex to their wedding anyway? And a Valentine’s Day wedding? Fucking gag me.
But as much as I’d love to show up looking fabulous and happy with some gorgeous man on my arm, if only to rub Harry’s nose in it, I’d have to find a date first. Not just a date, but a wedding date. It’s not like I can just find some random on Grindr to take.
The thought of Grindr has my stomach swooping in the same way it has for the last six months. It got so bad I’ve had to uninstall the app for weeks at a time in order to resist the urge to message Oliver for a repeat.
Beautiful, full of life, best-sex-I’ve-ever-had Oliver. And yes, I’m very much counting all the sex I had with Harry who was my first love and my first and only heartbreak. But who was only average in bed I came to find out after being dumped unceremoniously and released into the wilds of the gay dating world to fend for myself.
I really should thank Harry though for teaching me an important lesson so young—don’t trust anyone with your heart. Your dick? Sure. But never your heart.
I fling the invitation back onto my coffee table without care and slump back onto the couch miserably, reaching for my phone to call my best friend.
“Yes, you should go,” Luke says as soon as he answers his phone.
“Go where?”
“To the damn wedding, like I’ve already told you fifty times and like you’re calling me to whine about again.”
“That wasn’t what I was calling about,” I scoff, even though we both know that’s a complete lie.
“Good, so you decided to go?”
“That depends, did you get out of your bullshit family obligation, so you could be my fake date?” I counter.
“Sorry, babes, no dice.”
“I can’t go without a date. I shouldn’t go at all, but there’s no way in hell am I going in there all pathetic and single.”
“I agree with you there, but you’re forgetting one thing,” Luke points out.
“What’s that?”
“You’re gorgeous, and there are guys lining up for the chance to date you. Pick one of your many admirers and take them to the wedding.”
I tsk and shake my head even though he can’t see me. “You know I can’t do that; it would send mix messages. If you ask a casual fuck buddy to be your wedding date, they’ll get hearts in their eyes and start imagining we’ve suddenly stumbled into some sort of rom com where their love is all I need to thaw my cold, dead heart.”
“So, you don’t want it to be someone you’ve fucked?” he clarifies.
“Preferably not.”
“Okay…” he trails off, and I can hear the clicking of a keyboard in the background. “I have the perfect solution.”
“Care to fill me in?” I ask when he doesn’t go on.
“Nope, I think a surprise will be more fun. Leave it to me, you just worry about getting an expensive suit and practice that expression where your lips tilt up instead of down; it’s called a smile, and most people do it on occasion.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I grunt.
“Anything for you, babes.” And Luke is the only person in my life who can say that and I’ll believe it. He really would do, and has done, anything for me from scooping my ass up off the floor after my epic bender when Harry left me, to dragging me to the free clinic when he realized I’d turned to copious amounts of casual sex as a coping mechanism after I was finished with the alcohol, and finally getting me a job at his father’s company—one day to be his own company—once I pulled my head out of my ass and realized I couldn’t let my life go down the drain just because I got dumped like last week’s garbage.
We hang up the phone, and I can’t decide if I feel better or worse knowing Luke has some sort of solution in mind. I was kind of hoping to keep fretting about this until it was too late to do anything about it, and I was forced to miss the wedding.
Tilting my head back, I gaze unseeing at the ceiling above me, suddenly really wishing I had some weed so I could get foggy enough for a little while to ignore all this bullshit. And, of course, the thought of weed takes me right back to Oliver, the memory of the taste of it on his lips, the way the scent hung on my clothes after I left.
My cock grows hard at the memory of the way he moved under me, the look in his eyes just before he came, the feeling of his body wrapped around me in such an intoxicating way.
I shove my hand down my pants, gripping myself and stroking as my eyes close and the sensory memories of that night come to the forefront of my mind—the feeling of lace against my tongue, our sweat slicked bodies moving as one.
I cry out as my cock spasms in my hand, coating my fingers in thick, sticky seed, my chest heaving from my hurried jerk off session.
Maybe I should message Oliver again for a repeat. After all, what could just once more hurt? On the other hand, I’m sure he’s forgotten me after six months. It’s best to leave the memories as they are. It was probably the weed that’s making the memory more than it was anyway. Or maybe it was the lacy underwear. A newfound lace fetish makes a lot more sense than anything else. The sex couldn’t have been as good as I remember, and even if it was, that’s all the more reason to stay away, to protect myself from ever getting hurt again the way Harry hurt me.
Oliver
The thumping beat of “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails pounds in my chest as I slash my paintbrush over the canvas, desperately trying to capture the feeling of being taken apart and put back together again while impaled on the perfect cock.
A bead of sweat trickles down my temple, and I wipe it away, feeling the cold, wet sensation of paint being smeared carelessly across my face as I do it. I should crack a window and let a little of the cold early February breeze in, but I can’t drag myself away from my canvas and my mission to bleed my experience into a piece of art.
One song blurs into the next, and time ceases to have any meaning as the shadows grow long, and the room slowly grows dark. Even then, I don’t stop; I can’t.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been at it when I finally lay the last stroke, my body exhausted and my stomach growling. I take a step back and admire the painting in the silver moonlight. The vivid colors can hardly be made out in the dimness, but the reverent pleasure on the figure’s face makes my chest ache with its beauty.
I drop my brush, letting it splatter red paint on the floor without care and reach into my pocket to check the time on my phone.
I ignore the new Grindr messages I have, having long since given up hope that Austin will message me for a repeat, and blink slowly at the large numbers telling me it’s nearly three in the morning. No wonder I’m so hungry, I’ve been working non-stop for twelve hours.
Wiping my hands on my already paint spotted jeans, I amble into the kitchen and yank open the fridge to grab the box of leftover pizza. I snatch a couple of pieces and eat them while standing in the middle of the small kitchen because I’m still too keyed up to sit down.
Remembering the missed Grindr messages, I pull my phone back out, figuring a good, hard fuck would be the perfect thing to settle me for bed. I mean, I could just have a joint and jerk off, but that’s more of a Plan B type scenario. But before I can open Grindr, I notice an email notification. Since the only emails I get are from Valentine’s Inc., I know I’d better check it.
Unfortunately, as passionate as I am about my art, the whole starving artist cliché seems to hold some water, for me anyway. So, I pick up odd jobs here and there to keep food in my stomach and a roof over my head. And Valentine’s Inc. is honestly my favorite. I found out about it through a friend about a year ago and was intrigued right away. It’s an interesting concept—combination dating app and escort service. People can find their perfect match, or just find someone to practice on, bring to a wedding, whatever. And getting paid to go on dates? Yes, please. Sure, sometimes the guys aren’t the best looking, but there’s always free food, free entertainment, and best of all? Fucking is against company policy so I’m not even whoring myself out for the easy cash.
The job offer is for a date to a wedding on Valentine’s Day. Who gets married on Valentine’s Day? Gag.
I click the button to accept the job and then click over to Grindr to find some fun for the night.
The guys who messaged me aren’t terribly thrilling, and I end up in bed with my own hand anyway less than an hour later. After a few tokes of a joint, I slide my hand over my lacy jock, teasing my cock and remembering the way Austin licked me through the fabric all those months ago. I’m not too proud to admit that I did try to contact him again after our one encounter, but his profile was inactive. I haven’t let myself check again. If he wanted to see me, I’m certainly not difficult to get ahold of. I’m sure it’s for the best anyway; it was only meant as a bit of fun, not something to obsess over six months later.
With frustration, I stop teasing and shove my hand into my jock, now intent on a quick release so I can get some sleep. Jerking myself to the memories of Austin pounding me with that intense look in his eyes, it doesn’t take long before my cock is pulsing in my hand, soaking my jock with sticky cum.
When I’m done, I strip them off and take them to the bathroom to rinse the cum out in the sink so they won’t end up ruined, hanging them over the towel rod to dry, and then shuffle back to bed, planning to sleep until at least noon. Maybe I’ll hit the bar down the street that tosses me a few shifts a month when they’re short staffed. I know some people might find it stressful not to have a steady income, but to me, this is what freedom feels like. If I had to go to an office every day and do the same shit over and over again, I’d fling myself off the roof within the first week. I like the chaos, the hustle, the freedom.
I roll onto my side, my gaze drifting out my bedroom window where I can see the gentle glow of the streetlights below, hear the hum of traffic. No matter what anyone else thinks, this is my life, and I fucking love it.