by Rowan Shaw
ME: Hey, is now a good time to chat?
Brandon didn't reply right away. I didn't like how anxious that made me. I didn't like that I cared whether he answered or not. And I didn't like how my shoulders relaxed when my phone finally beeped a few minutes later.
BRANDON: Sorry, I was in the shower.
My mind went right down the gutter. I closed my eyes, breathing deeply to calm the fuck down. I knew all too well how good he looked with water dripping down his naturally tanned skin.
ME: How are you?
BRANDON: Why did you want to message me, exactly?
I clucked my tongue. Not quite the response I was hoping for. I didn't even know how to answer that.
ME: I was hoping to see you again.
BRANDON: Look, I'm gonna be straightforward. Sleeping together was great, but I'm really not into hook-ups, so unless you're looking for more, I'm not the guy for you. I have to think about my daughter first, and I can't let other things distract me.
My throat constricted as I rubbed my forehead. I didn't want to trick Brandon. I couldn't pretend I wanted more than sex.
BRANDON: You're not answering, so I'm guessing I was right. You just want to fuck, don't you? Is that why you asked for my number?
ME: No. I mean, I do want to sleep with you, yes. But I wouldn't mind taking you out on a date if that's what you want.
I sent the message and cursed myself. What the fuck was I doing? What was it about him that made me so damn weak?
BRANDON: Take me out on a date, but don't expect sex afterward. If you can prove to me you're in this for more than just sex, we can see how it goes.
Now he was just being cruel. Just my fucking luck, really. I inhaled deeply. Unfortunately, if I wanted to see him again, there wasn't much of a choice. Considering I hadn't fucked anyone since we last hooked up, I might as well just cave in. It wasn't like I was about to go out there and fuck other guys right now anyway.
BRANDON: Wei is staying with me tonight and tomorrow. Would Monday be fine?
ME: Wei?
BRANDON: My daughter.
Right. His daughter. I was going on a date with a guy who had a kid whom he'd had with a woman. I couldn't believe I was even doing this.
ME: I'm working until seven on Monday. I might not be ready before eight.
BRANDON: Eight is fine. You can pick the restaurant, and I'll treat.
ME: Certainement pas.
BRANDON: Fine. I'll treat next time.
Next time... He was already considering going out on more than one date? I blinked at the phone. How long did he plan on torturing me before we even got to fuck?
ME: Send me your address. I'm picking you up. Dress fancy.
After he gave me his information, I messaged Jean-François. I was still pissed at him, but I couldn't do this on my own. I hadn't dated anyone in years.
ME: I need your help.
JEAN-FRANÇOIS: Qu'est-ce qui se passe, mon coco? I thought you were sulking and never speaking to me again.
ME: Don't be ridiculous.
JEAN-FRANÇOIS: Look, I'm sorry we upset you.
I had to admit I deserved it, especially after talking so much shit about Florian in front of Enzo, but I was never going to tell Jean-François that.
ME: I'm taking Brandon out on a sexless date.
Little dots appeared and disappeared then reappeared again.
JEAN-FRANÇOIS: Let me get this straight. You, Patrick, are taking a bi guy on a date? Without any chance of scoring afterward?
I let out a deep groan.
ME: Stop it now, or I'm blocking your number.
JEAN-FRANÇOIS: Okay, okay. What do you need?
ME: Your advice.
JEAN-FRANÇOIS: This isn't your first date. You're acting like you're in middle school.
ME: Fine. Never mind.
I didn't need him to make a fool out of me again. I already felt stupid enough. I didn't even know why I was doing this. Dating without fucking. I had to be out of my mind.
When my phone beeped, I cast a quick, angry glance at it.
JEAN-FRANÇOIS: Lesson 1: Jerk off before your date. Knowing you, I'd do it at least twice. Maybe three times. Especially if he doesn't plan to fuck you afterward.
ME: I already know that, thanks.
JEAN-FRANÇOIS: Hey, you asked for advice, so shush. Lesson 2: Dress well, but not so well that he'll feel self-conscious. You're serious competition, and some queers don't like that. Makes them feel bad.
ME: Trust me, he's stunning and has nothing to worry about.
JEAN-FRANÇOIS: I'm surprised you're even bothering. When was the last time you got laid? That's gotta be a record for you.
ME: I don't fuck everything that moves.
JEAN-FRANÇOIS: Really? 'Cause it sure looks like it sometimes.
ME: I'm turning off my phone, you slut-shaming jerk.
JEAN-FRANCOIS: I'm not done with your dating lesson.
ME: I'll pass. Thanks.
JEAN-FRANÇOIS: You'll do great. Just be your naturally charming self. I don't know a single guy who isn't infatuated with you anyway.
ME: Right. Whatever.
JEAN-FRANÇOIS: You'd better text me to let me know how it went.
ME: We'll see.
I turned off my phone and tried to relax. I had a full weekend ahead of me to stress out about the whole thing. I'd brought a few patients' files home. Those were my trickiest ones to treat. I needed extra work to figure out some solutions. I hoped that would keep me busy long enough.
I reviewed the first file and sighed at the lack of progress we'd made this past month. I didn't want to give up. I never gave up. Not when somebody's well-being resided in my hands. I took a few notes on other methods to try with him, but my mind quickly wandered. I wasn't into working right now and had no clue how I'd survive the next two days without going nuts. Following Jean-François's advice, I went to the bathroom, hoping some good masturbation might help me unwind.
Chapter 19
BRANDON
A quick glance around the restaurant was enough to tell me dinner would cost a bundle. The place was fancy, the tables covered in white cloths, the walls painted a dark purple with expensive flower paintings everywhere, and chandeliers hanging low from the ceiling, their candle-shaped bulbs radiating a dim light. A few other couples were there too, chatting quietly while digesting their meals.
"I'm sorry we parted on such a sour note," Patrick said as he pulled my chair for me, then took the plum velvet seat facing mine.
He didn't leave me enough time to answer before he raised one finger to call the waiter. The dark-haired white man walked up to us, dressed all in black but for a beige apron around his waist. I was awful at telling when a guy was queer, but even I could see our waiter had a thing for my date. In spite of his discretion, his gaze outlined Patrick's lips before meeting his green eyes.
"Souhaitez-vous un apéritif, messieurs?" he asked, his eyes trained on Patrick as he handed us the menu. Who could blame him for ogling Patrick anyway? With his black suit and white button-down shirt under a magenta tie, my date was striking. His hair was slicked back, his face cleanly shaven, and I could smell his masculine cologne from across the table.
He flashed the waiter the same heart-stopping smile that undid me every time and asked for a whiskey while I ordered a martini. The waiter gave a nod, his gaze crawling all over Patrick, but when Patrick failed to return the attention—his eyes riveted to mine the entire time—the guy huffed and spun on his heels to leave.
Oblivious to the guy's attitude, Patrick opened his menu.
"Did you go see Docteur Bernard?" he asked without a glance at me.
"Do we really need to talk about this tonight?"
He pointed his sharp green eyes at me. "I'm guessing that's a 'no.'"
I didn't care much for his patronizing tone, but I preferred not to be confrontational—not after the sour route our non-relationship had taken the last time we'd met. I perused the menu—or at least pretende
d to focus on the words.
"I haven't had time to call her yet," I conceded.
"Do I need to do it for you? I've already sent your file. Weeks ago, actually."
I lowered my head, my nose almost touching the menu, and didn't reply. Maybe if he thought I hadn't heard, he'd drop the topic.
"Are you still mad at me?" he asked.
I raised my eyes, unable to sustain his gorgeous gaze for long. "No. We'll see..."
"We'll see?" He cocked an eyebrow.
"Yes, we'll see."
"Okay then."
I flipped through the few pages of the menu, unable to decide what to get. I couldn't concentrate, and everything here was out of my price range. Thirty-five euros for a duck filet? Goodness gracious.
"Brandon..."
"Mmm." I traced the lines, the words blurring into some unintelligible mess. I couldn't fathom why French restaurants always had to use such fancy nonsensical descriptions.
"Why won't you look at me?"
Before I could answer, the waiter came back. He handed Patrick his drink first and didn't even glance at me when he placed mine in front of my plate, nearly knocking it over. "Are you ready to order?"
"We'll need another minute," Patrick replied.
I searched for the cheapest item, but Patrick looked at me from over his raised menu. "Choose whatever you want. I'm having an appetizer, the main dish, some cheese, and a dessert. Just letting you know."
I wondered where the hell he stocked all those calories. It would take me a week to make up for such a meal, though I refused to eat so much tonight that it would cost Patrick a hundred euros.
"What are you having for an appetizer?" I asked even if I didn't plan on having one myself.
"Foie gras."
I grimaced instinctively.
"Are you a vegetarian?" he asked. "You can't be; we had croque-monsieur the one time."
The way he wouldn't stop searching my eyes for visual contact unnerved me. I felt like a teenager on his first date while Patrick sat there, completely relaxed. As if looking absolutely gorgeous without trying wasn't enough, his innate nonchalance only increased my attraction. The more I tried to stand back, the closer his magnetism pulled me in.
"No. Why?" I replied.
"When I said I was choosing foie gras, you made the same face my friend Enzo pulls any time I eat something he deems controversial."
"Is Enzo the man from the bookstore?"
"Yes, that was Enzo. I can barely eat meat in front of him. He's too polite to say anything, but the look in his eyes never lies," Patrick chuckled.
I wondered how close he was to the guy. The affection in his voice was undeniable, as was the way his eyes softened with tenderness when he mentioned him.
"I'm not a vegetarian," I explained, "but the practice is pretty gruesome. Don't they force-feed those ducks to the point of making them sick?"
"Should I pick something else, then?"
"No, get what you want. I just don't understand why the French are so willing to torture those poor ducks over some pâté."
Patrick nearly gasped. "Never call foie gras pâté unless you want people to rip you a new one. At least I don't eat frogs."
"How would that be any different?" I asked.
"It's illegal to kill them in France because we pushed these amphibians to the brink of extinction. We bring them from Asia now. Better to exterminate entire species in other countries than our own, right? Although I'm guessing they're commercially raised."
"So you're fine with foie gras but not frogs? Sounds a bit hypocritical to me."
"Ducks are not going extinct anytime soon," Patrick pointed out.
"Still."
His lips rose on one side. "You and Enzo would really get along. You should meet properly sometime."
I gave a pause. Was he suggesting I meet his friends already?
When I didn't reply right away, he looked at me again. "What are you having?"
"Uh, I think I'll skip the appetizer," I babbled. "I'll have the ris de veau."
"Oh so me eating duck is awful, but you eating a baby cow is fine?" he asked with a small smile while raising his hands. "I see how it is."
"Tsk. I guess you're right." I looked at the menu again. "What should I eat, then?"
"I was kidding, Brandon. Eat whatever you want. What will you have for dessert?"
"What's mirabelle?" I asked, spotting the word on the list.
"Huh?"
I pointed at the menu. "Crème glacée à la mirabelle. What's that? I've seen the word before, but I've never tried it."
"Mirabelles are those yellow fruits that look like cherries, but slightly bigger. The dessert is just vanilla ice cream with mirabelle liquor. It's very strong."
"I've had liquor before. I'm sure I'll be fine."
I had no time to ponder the meaning of his little smirk. The waiter was back for our orders, ogling my date again. I cleared my throat, but he didn't seem to get the message. Patrick ordered his foie gras and some trout with lemon sauce while I picked veal. When Patrick barely acknowledged the waiter, the guy huffed again and left, his lips pursed in discontent.
"Do you know that guy?" I asked, jerking my chin toward him.
Patrick gave him a quick look and shrugged. "Not that I remember. Why?"
"He's been leering at you the entire time. And he has quite an attitude."
Patrick flicked his hand. "Mon lapin, if I paid attention to every queer with an attitude, it'd never end."
"How do you know he's queer?"
"Survival instinct."
"Huh?"
"I'll explain some other time."
I nodded, hardly convinced. No matter what Patrick said, there was something strange about the waiter.
"You bring a lot of dates here?" I sure hoped he didn't, but that would explain the waiter's growing hostility.
A loud, unrestrained laugh poured out of Patrick's mouth. "Brandon, I don't date or hardly do, anyway. You're the exception to the rule."
I winced at his words. "What rule?"
"I'd rather not say."
"Let me guess: you nail them, then drop them, don't you?"
Patrick bit his lower lip and narrowed his eyes. "Well, said like that, it sure makes me sound like a prick. They're consenting adults, you know?"
"Just so you know, I didn't return to the club because I didn't want to become one of those men you like to bed whenever you feel like it before dropping them."
His expression was unreadable. "I don't bed them whenever I feel like it. I rarely do multiple nights."
"You did with me," I commented.
"Yes, I sure did."
"Why?"
"What?"
"Why me?" I didn't get it. Patrick was breathtakingly handsome. He seemed to have no issue finding hook-ups. Why was he bothering with me at all?
He took a sip of his whiskey, his eyes on me the entire time, but he didn't reply.
"Why are you willing to take me out even when there's no chance we'll sleep together tonight?"
Something flickered through his eyes. "I don't know."
"Okay." His answer disappointed me, but at least he was honest.
"I just like being around you."
"Why?"
"Why do I need a reason to like you? Do I really need to make a list of pros and cons?" he asked.
"That'd be nice, yes."
He gave a short nod. "Okay. One, you're gorgeous as fuck. I mean, I don't know if you even realize how hard it is for me not to touch you right now, but I'm trying my best."
I squeezed my legs when the word "hard" seeped out of his mouth. It was nearly impossible to control the effect his deep voice had on me.
"Two, you're smart," he continued, unaware of the effect his words had on me.
"You don't know me well enough to say that," I protested.
His lips curled into a lopsided grin. "Oh, trust me, I do. Three: you're kind, and your American accent really turns me on. Four: you're not interest
ed in my dick, and somehow that arouses me even more."
"Well, I don't know that I would go that far," I whispered. "I mean, it's not that I'm not interested. I just want to make sure you're not using me. That's all."
He raised an eyebrow. "Guys can go very far in the flirting game just to get laid. How do you know I'm not playing the game until I catch you?"
"I doubt you have to try that hard to get a guy. I don't see why you would even bother."
He trained his green eyes on me. "Did you tell your daughter the truth about me?"
I paused, unsure if he was serious or not. When it didn't sound like a joke, I narrowed my eyes. "Did I tell my daughter that you and I tear each other's clothes off every time we run into each other? No."
Patrick burst out laughing. "I meant did you tell her we're dating?"
"When she asked, we weren't dating yet. And even if we were, I prefer to keep her out of it. She's already decided she wants a second dad. I don't need to give her false hope."
One of his eyes twitched almost imperceptibly. "I see."
"What?"
"You don’t think I would make a good dad?" His green gaze pinned on me as if he were challenging me to say "no."
"That's a trick question. I don't know you well enough to answer."
"Fair enough. So, tell me, when were you going to tell me you're bisexual? Because you are, right? Bisexual."
Chapter 20
PATRICK
Brandon startled at my question right as the waiter interrupted us. It had taken forever for the food to arrive, and I was famished. It wasn't as if the place was packed with people either. It was getting close to eight forty-five and most customers had left already.
The waiter handed me my appetizer, and since Brandon hadn't picked anything, I was left to eat on my own while he stared. I offered to share, but he declined, making a face at my plate.
"So?" I glanced at him while spreading my foie gras over some toasted bread.
"What?"
"When were you going to tell me you're bi?"
He shrugged. "I didn't think it mattered."
"It does."
His eyes narrowed at the tone of my voice. "Why?"
