Live for the Day (7 page)
“I’ve got lots to say, Trev.”
Here we go…
“But I’m not sure you’d want to hear it all.”
“Probably not, but what’s one more queer-hater to add to my list of people to avoid?” Shit, I sounded a right sour fucker, but life these days had taught me to defend myself. Be on the defensive.
“Queer-hater?” He laughed quietly.
It unnerved me. I prodded at my baguette, tucking some lettuce back inside. “Yes, queer-hater. You know, people who don’t like gays. So just do me a favor and spew it all out—you’ll feel better afterwards, I’m sure—then we can both get on with our lives.”
“Bloody hell, you’ve had one hell of a number done on you, haven’t you?”
“Something like that.”
“I wouldn’t want to add to that.”
I whipped my head up to stare at him, wanting to catch his expression and judge whether he was being sincere. Seemed he was, going by the soft smile and what I could only wish in my wildest dreams was compassion in his brown eyes. Could have knocked me down with a feather, seriously.
“Oh right,” I said. “So you’re all right about gays, then?”
“I’d have to be, wouldn’t I?”
“Not necessarily. A lot of people aren’t.”
“Don’t I know it, but it’s how you deal with it that matters.” His smile widened. “Sticking two fingers up at the world works wonders. Oh, and shaking your arse at straight men is another. Scares the fuck out of them. Makes them think you want them.”
I frowned.
He’s gay?
Was I going to fall for what he’d said? Was I fuck. “If this is just another tactic I’ve so far not experienced, where you make out you’re bent then admit you’re straight, get a move on with it, will you?”
He pursed his lips. I took a proper look at him then. Average fella, someone you wouldn’t glance twice at. Brown hair, a bit shaggy and in need of a trim, brown eyes, slim nose, rounded chin. Some would say he needed to lose a few pounds, but not me. He had a nick from a razor on his neck. All in all, just a bloke.
“Been put through the wringer, haven’t you?” he asked then bit into his sandwich. Tuna mayo, heavy on the mayo.
I sniffed, my stomach growling, reminding me that my baguette was sitting untouched. “Whatever.” Yeah, I sounded rude, but that was self-preservation for you. Ward them off before they got the chance to wound and all that.
“D’you fancy going out after work?” he asked.
I widened my eyes at that. Come on. Asking me out was going a bit far.
“Where to?” That wasn’t what I’d intended to say, but the words were out now and there was no taking them back. Oh, I could get up then walk away, leaving what I’d said behind, but, perversely, I wanted to stay and see this through to the end. Even if I did get hurt. He’d wind me up, set a time and place, and I’d go there, standing alone while waiting for him to appear. And he never would. Tomorrow, there’d be sniggers at work, everyone knowing I’d been stood up. It would only be the second time it had happened.
I was a glutton for emotional torture, me.
“Okay,” I said, sighing the word to let him know I was well aware of his game. “Where d’you want to go?”
He shrugged. “Not bothered. You choose.”
Well, that was a first. Last week
they’d
picked the location, with several vantage points for other people to hide and watch the show. As far as me standing there like a lemon could be a show. Yeah, I really had been put through the wringer. All the joy squeezed out of me, my mind a limp rag.
“I have no idea what you like doing, so me picking somewhere to go…” I shrugged.
“So I’ll tell you what I like doing, shall I, then you’ll have more idea of where we can go.”
“If you want.”
“I do want, otherwise I wouldn’t have suggested it.”
This man was either a bloody good actor or he was being earnest. I couldn’t make my mind up which it was.
“I like walking,” he said. “Just walking, not knowing where I’m going and letting my feet take me there. I love reading—same kind of scenario. I pick up a book, having not read the stuff on the back, and find out where the book will take me.” His eyes seemed to light up. “I like art—boring but true—and visiting galleries so I can play this game I always play. Nerdy game, but I enjoy it. I try to imagine what the artist was thinking while they were painting. A bit like people-watching, where you invent lives for them, knowing your scenarios are probably so far removed from the real thing but doing it anyway.” He lifted one shoulder, tilting his head toward it, as though he felt sheepish.
He was genuine—out and out bloody genuine.
And I had no idea how to deal with that.
He’d spoken so—what was the word?—effortlessly, like what he’d said had come straight from inside, not fabricated to match the moment or convince me to like him. When I thought about it, he’d admitted to being what some people would think of as boring. I thought he was downright fucking brilliant to like doing those things—I liked the same shit. Weird, that.
“Okay,” I said, planning what I was about to say next. I fiddled with a strip of lettuce that I hadn’t managed to poke back inside before. “What about The Atrium?” I wanted to test him, see if he’d heard of it.
“The best choice. You ever sat in the seating area there and just watched all the people as they come in?”
“No, but I gather you have.” So he knew exactly where I was on about—a good sign. The Atrium was an art gallery tucked away behind the high street, hidden from general view and, I supposed, only known about if you were into art.
“Many times.” A faint blush crept onto his cheeks. “Well, more than many. I don’t have much else to do but visit places like that.”
This bloke… I told myself he was the real deal, someone I might be able to hang around with once in a while. A friend, a person who shared my interests. I let my mind wander, imagining us doing all sorts of things, knowing that if we did my life would be a lot richer. Less lonely.
Fuck it. I’d take the chance.
“Seven o’clock all right with you?” I asked. “By the statue of the naked lady in the foyer?”
“Yep, that’ll do me.”
“Good.”
I stood, a tad abruptly, and grabbed my baguette. I stumbled away from the table, acutely aware of the stares from the other workers. Shit, had they been watching me with that man?
That man. Christ, I didn’t even know his name.
About the Author
Sarah Masters is a multi-published author in three pen names writing several genres. She lives with her husband, children, and three cats in an English village. She writes full time and is also a cover artist and blog designer. In another life she was an editor. Her other pen names are Natalie Dae and Charley Oweson.
Sarah is busy co-authoring with Jaime Samms. They have several books in mind so will be writing for a couple of years to come! She also needs to finish her M/M novel, the tale she’s dubbed The Book That Doesn’t Want To End. She’s at the last chapter but is afraid to open it in case that last chapter isn’t really the last chapter…
Email:
[email protected]
Sarah loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at
http://www.pride-publishing.com
.
Also by Sarah Masters
What’s his Passion?: Outcast Cowboys
