Halfway to the valet, I knew I couldn’t drive. I’d only had a couple of drinks but had ignored all of my usual tricks so I could drink without succumbing to total inebriation. I wasn’t too far gone, but getting behind the wheel wasn’t an option. It was Peter Morgan’s fault. Shit. I had to go back in there, down a gallon of water, and sober up. Or I could just take a taxi home. I stopped to consider my options, sparing a glance toward where I’d left my boss standing, probably planning my termination letter. He was still there just where I’d left him, staring at me and looking more like a GQ cover model than he had any right to.
I couldn’t do it. I had to go home. Retreat. Lick my wounds and figure out how I could avoid him from this point forward. I hailed a taxi and pulled at my tie. What a fucking mess of a night!
2
I TORTURED myself with thoughts of regret over my impetuous outburst. I should have kept my big mouth shut. I’m really not a confrontational kind of guy. Alcohol was surely to blame. The best course of action from a professional standpoint would be to fess up to my inebriated state that evening and apologize. I wasn’t sure I wanted to, though I had to admit that the very idea of running into him at work scared me. I had a fear of being stuck riding in the elevator with him, seeing him in the office kitchen, or hell, even in passing from my desk to a conference room. It was ridiculous. Happily, none of my fears were realized in the week after my spontaneous verbal assault. I learned through the grapevine that Mr. Morgan was traveling for business. Whew! I could only hope it was a long trip.
Why was I wasting a moment more thinking about him? I shook my head in an attempt to rid my brain of unwanted thoughts and refocus. It was time to move on. Spring had sprung, and DC was at its most beautiful. The weather was warming and the cherry blossoms were in bloom. It was time for a new start and the desire to be around my own kind was stronger than ever. I had had enough of blending with the hetero crowd for a while. I wanted to be carefree and not worry about how I sounded or how I looked. I just wanted to be me.
It was time to go dancing.
I picked Aaron up by taxi Saturday night, dressed to impress in light-colored designer jeans with holes in all the right places and a snug V-neck black T-shirt. It was my go-to hot club-wear. Aaron looked hot too. He had on a pair of ass-hugging black designer jeans and a peek-a-boo mesh top. He had used his glitter wand liberally, and his hazel eyes were well lined. I borrowed a little lip gloss and let him put the smallest bit of eyeliner on my eyes. He claimed I looked fabulous, and a glance in the mirror proved he might just be right. However, I wasn’t accustomed to wearing makeup, and I didn’t want to feel self-conscious tonight.
Aaron looked me over as we waited in line for entrance at Boutique. He licked his lips lasciviously and wrapped an arm around my waist. I felt him pull at my shirt, and gathered he wanted to whisper something to me.
“Relax, sweetheart. You look beautiful. But you’re too uptight.” He kissed my earlobe and pulled back.
I nodded in agreement. He was right. I did need to relax. I was still keyed up from work and that wouldn’t do. When we were finally granted entrance into the insanely crowded dance club, I felt a surge of adrenaline as a thumping techno beat pulsed through my body. I kissed Aaron’s cheek and pointed to the main dance floor where a disco ball slowly turned, bathing the scantily clad handsome young men in a rainbow prism. He nodded and pointed to the bar, gesturing that he would join me after he ordered a cocktail.
Some nights the crush of sweaty skin against my own made me cringe a bit. Especially when I was sober and there was no sexual act involved. Tonight it was intoxicating and seemed to herald possibility. I wasn’t looking for a hookup. However, I wouldn’t be against dancing real close with a hot, sexy man. In fact, that was absolutely what I wanted. Aaron and I danced for hours. Sometimes we danced together, putting on a sexy show for the other boys on the floor, and other times we paired up with nearby partners.
I looked over at one point to see Aaron practically being mauled by a buff, tattooed muscleman who was struggling to get his hands in Aaron’s pants. The tight denim wasn’t allowing him access, and I noticed the groping was getting a little more insistent and rough. I knew Aaron well enough to know when he was enjoying an admiring dance partner. He wasn’t fighting this guy off exactly, but he also didn’t seem to be participating much. Something was wrong. Time to intervene.
I made my way over to my friend and set my hand on his neck, pulling his attention directly toward me. I saw that his dance partner had gotten a little further in his quest for skin than I’d thought. Aaron’s jeans were unzipped in the front, and I could tell his privates were certainly feeling the cool of the air-conditioned dance club. I swatted his assailant’s hands away and pulled Aaron’s body close to mine.