I don’t know why, but it only just now occurs to me how close together we are in this tiny car. Just a few feet separate his lips from mine, and I’m disarmed by the fact that that’s the only thing my mind bothers to measure—the proximity of our lips.
Is Brant holding his breath? I feel like I’m holding mine. Even the music seems to have left us alone in this vehicle so we can become so incredibly, sensitively, unsettlingly aware of one another’s presence, one another’s bodies …
He licks his lips.
I pull my bottom one in, biting it softly.
“You gotta know,” he says so low, his voice turns into gravel, “that it isn’t just the little horny, bouncy dude inside me speaking when I say you’re … f-fucking gorgeous.”
His eyes shimmer anxiously.
Brant just stuttered.
And my mouth is so dry, I couldn’t respond even if I wanted to.
Why am I so damn nervous all of a sudden?
“You know that, right?” He won’t let up. “You know that you’re a total babe, right?”
I look away suddenly, recoiling back into myself. It’s too much, too soon. Too intense. Too close.
“Hey, look, we’re here,” he announces when the light turns green, his voice a bit strained. I glance up just as he hangs a right, pulling into the parking lot of some restaurant I’ve never seen before. Big green lights adorn every window and there seems to be quite a crowd, even for a Monday.
I get out of the car perhaps a touch too fast. I let Brant lead the way to the door and, naturally, he holds it open and gives a sweeping gesture of his hand, letting me enter first. Such a gentleman. And I’m sure he’s just as much a gentleman when he bends his girls over countertops and thrusts his cock in and out of them faster than a car piston.
When the hostess seats us, it’s in an outdoor patio area enclosed by posts with strands of green bulbs hanging lazily between them. The eyes of the hostess linger on Brant’s before she sets menus in front of us and makes her leave. So as I peruse the appetizers, I wonder privately if Brant might have already tried a few things here that are not on the menu. Then our waitress, a girl named Brianna, has a smile only for Brant when she takes his order. That same smile both tightens and darkens when she takes mine, then she sweeps away with the menus. Is she yet another of Brant’s conquests, or am I now presuming too much?
“I like this place,” he tells me with a lift of his eyebrows.
“It seems to like you, too,” I remark dryly.
The sarcasm goes over his head. “So do you live alone?”
I take a sip of my water. “Yes. I have a place by the Brook.”
He lifts his eyebrows. “Jefferson Brook? Isn’t that kind of far from campus?”
“It’s only a fifteen minute walk.”
“No car?”
“I prefer to walk. I run errands by foot every day. I volunteer at the Westwood Light, bringing by art supplies whenever I can and … letting the kids create. It’s a bit of an unofficial thing. The head admin doesn’t like me but lets me come because the kids do, so—”
“What’s that? An orphanage? Homeless shelter?”
“Something like that.” I take another sip, then shiver at a sudden gust of wind, which tosses my hair. “Why are you amazed by creative minds? You act like you don’t have one of your own.”
“Because I don’t,” he shoots back.
I lift my eyebrows questioningly at him, awaiting some elaboration. Is he saying that because I accused him of not being a real artist, or is there something more behind his words?
He smiles lightly, shifting in his seat, then props his elbows up on the table. “Listen, I’ve been surrounded by people my whole life who are twenty times more creative than me. Even my roommates. I’ve got Dmitri, who writes poetry. And short stories. Then there’s Eric, who’s an actor. But he didn’t get cast in anything this semester or last, so he sulks a lot and talks about how he wants to write plays and win himself a Pulitzer or something. He’s pretty miserable to be around lately, if I’m honest. I think Dmitri’s a good influence on him, what with the being a writer and all. Then there’s Clayton, my bestie since childhood, and he’s a damn lighting designer working with … with people from New York now. Lucky bastard.”
“They’re all your gay roommates?”
“Just Eric and Dmitri. Clayton moved out. He’s my best friend, so it sucks that he’s gone. Now he’s living with Dessie, a pretty actress and singer. Maybe you’ll meet them sometime.”
“Maybe.” I offer him a smile, stirring my water with a straw.