Learning-to-Feel (10 page)

We arrived at our destination and had to walk just a few yards. Trent still had no idea where I was taking him, but when we round the corner and he saw the Museum of Fine Arts, he stopped walking, apparently so he could smile.

"You brought me here?" he asked, still grinning, with his eyes wide.

I nodded. "There’s a new exhibit on contemporary abstract, and I thought you might like to see it. I haven't been here in a few years, but considering you're an artist and all…"

"Oh my God," he whispered and looked at me for the longest time. Then he looked at the building before us, and his look of awe made me smile.

I told him, "You can stay out here and look at the building, or if you'd prefer, we could look at the art inside…" and without thinking, I took his hand and led him toward the doors.

It wasn’t until I went to pay our admission and I had to let go of his hand, that I even realized I’d just held another man's hand in public.

I wasn’t sure what surprised me more, that I
did
just hold his hand in public, or that I didn’t care. Trent could tell I just realized what I’d done, and he was watching me, waiting no doubt, for me to freak out. But instead, I just smiled at him.

I led the way, taking him through the grand foyer first. He took in everything, admiring and staring, but it was when we found the new exhibit of abstract art that his reaction floored me.

He was moved by what he saw. He stared at each painting for ages, as though he was deciphering a hidden language, from one abstract artist to another. He tilted his head every so often and the fingers on his right hand moved, as though the textures meant something, even though he was some meters away.

I didn’t pay particular attention to the paintings. I was watching him, and hours felt like minutes, time flew so quickly, I wished I'd brought him here earlier. We eventually did look at other rooms, but he wanted to go back to the abstract exhibition.

He was drawn to the painting that was a dozen shades of white, the one of lines and boxes and what appears to be a horizon.

I stood behind him and whispered in his ear, "Tell me what you see."

He gasped as my voice surprised him, though his eyes never left the painting in front of us. "This is someone who won't be defined, won't conform, he won't bend. He has strong beliefs and he wants to be heard."

Wow. His perception amazed me. "Then why isn't it bold, with loud colors? Why is there no color?"

"The artist wants you to see the meaning, to hear what he has to say. Colors tell a story, but here in this painting, the artist isn't saying
look
at me, he’s saying
listen
to me."

My heart flipped in my chest at his words, his Southern accent spoken low and thoughtful, made me shiver. He was so insightful, and I envied how he saw the world. I saw black and white, rational and cogent streams of thought my medical training had ingrained in me. Yet he saw between the lines, he saw hidden meanings, how color interprets emotions and how lines define agenda.

I realized I wasn’t as good as him at being in this
whatever-the-hell-it-is
without any emotions attached.

I leaned my forehead on his shoulder and whispered, "Incredible."

"Yes, it is," he answered softly.

I wasn't talking about the painting, but I didn’t correct him. I kissed the side of his neck instead.

CHAPTER 11

I'd not realized how late it had gotten by the time we left the Museum. "Come on," I told him, "there’s a restaurant here. I’m starving."

We were given a table, and while we were waiting for our food, Trent could barely contain his excitement. He talked of the paintings, the textures, the language, like I hadn't just seen them with him. And in a way, I guess I hadn't, I didn't see any of what he saw.

He was describing them in ways I couldn’t have imagined before now. I only saw large canvases of colors, defused a dozen different ways. He saw life, emotions and energy. Even when we left the restaurant and walked out into the cool, Boston night, he was still smiling.

He pulled out his phone, looked something up online, and his face lit up. "Now, it’s my turn to show you something."

Two blocks later there were neon lights and security men at the door. It was a bar. Not just any bar, but a gay bar. Trent walked right up, confident and knowing, but I wasn’t. "Trent…" I said hesitantly.

He stopped and looked back, he walked back to me. "Nathan, you need to experience this, just once."

I shook my head. "But I don’t drink, or dance," I told him.

He grinned like I’d just dared him, and I exhaled loudly. He knew he’d just won. "Come on, Baby," he whispered seductively in my ear, and I didn’t stand a chance. "You won't be disappointed."

So, reluctantly I followed him, and Trent offered a cheerful and very Southern, "Evenin', boys," to the two burly men at the door.

They smiled and requested our ID before letting us
enter. Wh
en they checked Trent's license, one of the men said, "You're a long way from home, Cowboy."

Trent grinned and winked at him. "Just a heel click of my ruby slippers away, baby."

Both men laughed, while I stood there a little shocked at seeing this side of him. They opened the doors, and Trent pulled me inside.

The room, lit by neon and strobe lights, was otherwise dark. There was a bar in the back, dance floor to the right
.
It was full. Of men. Dancing. The music was loud and thumping, and I couldn’t take my eyes off the men who swayed and grinded.

Trent still had my hand, and he pulled me to the bar. I couldn’t hear what he ordered, but the barman returned with two very large, very green cocktails. Trent handed one to me and I sipped it cautiously. It was sweet and surprisingly, not too bad. I had to lean right up against Trent and yell in his ear so he could hear me. "What was the thing with the ruby slippers at the door?"

He laughed and leaned into me, and I felt his lips at my ear. "Just playing with them," he said. "It was fun."

When he looked at me, his eyes were bright and smiling
.
He was so close, and I was pressed against him. One hand held my drink, the other hand held his hip. But I needed to be that close so I could hear him
.
It wasn’t that it meant anything…

Taking a small step back, I sipped my drink, taking my time to look over the crowded room. There were men talking, with hands on thighs, men kissing, fondling and groping, and men like me who were watching everyone else.

I leaned into him again, pressing my lips at his ear. "They’re staring at me."

"Because you're fucking beautiful," he answered. I looked at him, shocked. But he wasn’t ashamed, he just smiled. "Finish your drink so I can take you out on that dance floor and show them who you're here with."

He saw me choke at his words, and he smiled. He was different here, he was in his element. He was comfortable and had an air of authority, and I liked it. I finished my drink in one go and shuddered as I swallowed it. Trent chuckled, took my hand and led me into the sea of swaying bodies.

He pulled me against him, my hips fit perfectly with his. The alcohol buzzed my brain, and my blood was warm, furling desire in my veins. Trent ran his hands over my hips, around my back and down my ass. He ground against me, and the music thumped in my chest.

My eyes closed. I felt him against me, his chest against mine. His nose skimmed along my jaw, and when he pressed his lips to my neck, I moaned. I felt him smile against my skin, and I was helpless to what he was doing to me.

And he knew it.

Then he spun me so my back was against his chest and when he ground his hardening cock against my ass, my body betrayed me and I shuddered. I felt exposed like this, there were other men so close, almost up against me, but Trent kept his hands on my hips and his mouth at my neck.

There was no doubt who I was here with.

I lifted my hands above my head until my fingers found his hair, and I pulled his face closer. His lips teased my neck, and he moved us to the music. We danced, on display for the world to see and yet it was so sensual, and I felt so alive.

And a little bit drunk.

Trent whispered in my ear, "I think we need another drink," I felt his breath on my skin.

This time at the bar, there were more people. Trent ordered two more green drinks and dragged me to one side, away from the bar where it was a little darker, and I took a long drink.

"Thought you said you didn’t drink or dance," he said, clearly amused. "Do you like it?"

Whether he was asking if I like the drink or the dancing, I wasn’t sure. I nodded, "Yes."

I finished my second drink, and Trent offered another. "Water," I told him. He laughed and went to the bar. My head was spinning, or the room was, and I was moving to the thumping beat, even though I was standing by myself.

Then a hand tapped my shoulder. "Dr. Tierney?"

Oh, fuck.

I turned to find a face I recognized, though my green-drink skewed brain took a second to place his face. He was on the staff at Boston General. "John Reitner," he reminded me.

Yes. That was him.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. Then he amended, "Well, I know
what
you're doing here. But I haven't seen you here before."

"I’m here with Trent," I told him, and I suddenly felt very drunk. "He‘s at the bar. He‘s gay."

"Oh," he nodded and smiled, "right."

Then Trent was at my side, very close, and he handed me a bottle of water. I introduced them and explained that John works at Boston General. Trent nodded and looked at me, alarmed. I imagine I looked the same.

"It’s alright, Dr. Tierney," John told me, "I won't tell anyone I saw you."

And with that, he turned and danced himself into the middle of the dance floor.

Trent asked me, "Are you okay?"

I shrugged and nodded. "Too late now," I told him. "And I’m too drunk to care."

He laughed, "Then we should dance."

We finished our waters and went back to the dance floor. This time he kept me facing him, flush against him, and surely he felt how aroused I was. We danced, or rather Trent danced with me. He kissed me right where everyone could see us, and I couldn’t bring myself to care.

I was lost in the moment of being with him like this, on the dance floor, in his arms. It felt right. And so fucking good.

Eventually, we both needed to pee. When we came out from the bathroom, Trent suggested another drink, and I was drunk enough to think it was a fantastic idea.

This time when I was standing by myself, another man approached me. He looked me up and down like I was something to eat, and I didn’t like it. "Well hello, Gorgeous," he murmured and almost cornered me. "You look a little lost. You want to come home with me
?
Don’t deny it, Gorgeous."

I literally felt my skin crawl. "I’m not interested," I told him. I wasn’t usually backward about being forward, but I was out of my element here. I looked for Trent, and then he was suddenly there.

He slid between us, so he was in front of me as he faced this guy. "I believe he told you he’s not interested," his southern accent was strong. He stared the man down and took a step toward him. "He’s mine."

It took me a moment to realize what Trent said. That I was his - that I belonged to him - and while it shocked me, I couldn’t deny I liked it. Because I
did
like it.

The guy disappeared, and Trent turned to face me. "I’m sorry," he said.

So I kissed him, I kissed him hard. I didn’t care who saw. When I broke away from his lips, I told him, "Don’t apologize. I liked it."

His eyes widened, but he grinned and took my hand, leading me to the bar. "You're coming with me this time," he said, "it seems I can’t leave you alone."

Trent stood at the bar, and I slipped my hands in the back pockets of his jeans. I was quite content to play with his ass. He kept looking over his shoulder at me and it made me chuckle. "Care to remove your hands?" he asked me with a raised brow.

"Only if you remove your jeans first," I said, although it mustn't have been as quiet as I'd intended, because the barman laughed as he placed two more green drinks on the bar.

Trent picked up the two glasses, and I was forced to take one of my hands out of his ass pocket to take the drink. "So," Trent joked, "never had you pegged for a handsy drunk."

I smiled at him as I took a long draw of my drink. The third one tasted much better than the first two, and I drank it probably far too quickly and told him we needed to dance. He shook his head at me, but he obliged.

The dance floor was pumping, and half the men were now shirtless
.
I wrapped my hand around his neck and kissed him. I was past giving a fuck. It felt good, and it felt right. I was in a gay club, dancing with and kissing a man, and I didn’t give a fuck.

I didn’t care that I was drunk. I felt good. I’d not felt this good, this alive, in my entire life. I had no idea how long we danced, but I was sweaty and so fucking turned on. Trent was grinding against me, rubbing his denim-clad cock against mine, and I felt how hard he was, how hard I was.

I ran my hands over his back and ass, and up into his hair. I kissed him like there was no tomorrow - and he reciprocated. He was into this, there on the dance floor, I knew he was. He held me, his hands touched as much of me as he could reach, he moaned in my mouth, and his body shuddered.

"We need to leave," he breathed in my ear.

I'd kind of forgotten we were in a crowded bar. I looked around, and everyone seemed oblivious to us… not that I cared.

Next thing I knew, I was telling a cab driver my address, and we were falling into my apartment. Bentley was excited to see us, and I gave him a cuddle. I told him I missed him too, and Trent laughed at us and then dragged me up the stairs.

"For someone who doesn't dance or drink, you did quite well," Trent chuckled.

Three cocktails were obviously enough to make me say things I normally wouldn't, because I told him, "I can think of better things to do with your mouth than make smartass comments."