"You speak French? I thought Scots just communicated in a series of grunts and throwing broken-off beer bottles at each other."
"Oh, you've visited Glasgow, then?"
I grinned as we edged closer to the front of the line. "Never had the pleasure." The surprisingly clean tiled floor gleamed and my shoes squeaked every time I took a slow step. The line didn't move as fast as I would have liked --- get food, eat food, leave, back to his place or mine, please and thank you --- but it gave us the chance to have something approximating a conversation.
I felt conspicuous here, as if the few customers who'd forsaken clubs and bars for the sake of growling stomachs knew what we were up to, what we intended. But how likely was it that some drink-fuelled bum in the corner, high on MSG, would stagger to his feet and point at us, announcing to the entire room, "See those two guys over there? They totally want to fuck each other."
Not that I'd ever had that much trouble on account of being gay, but one never knew. I wasn't ashamed. Just wary. I'd never been given to public displays of affection, but wondered then how the public would react if I followed through on my earlier thought about grabbing myself a handful of Whatshisname's ass.
Jesus. I'm going to fuck a guy without knowing his name. My face ached with the effort required to stop myself grinning. That'll be one thing ticked off my sexual to-do list.
"Trust me. I've seen more culture in a pot of yoghurt," he said, breaking into my thoughts again. We'd neared the counter by a fair distance while I'd been daydreaming. "Or yo- gurt, however you pronounce it."
"I can understand why you chose to leave."
"What makes you think I chose to?" he shot back, with another one of those heart-stopping winks.
"Why did you?"
He shrugged. "Big, wide world out there. Why not see some of it?"
I couldn't help but get the feeling he was avoiding the question.
"Criminal record?"
"Ah. That's the one thing that sets me apart from most of my com-patriots. No criminal record. Or STIs, come to that. Or drug habit. Or alcohol addiction."
"Glad to hear it." Catching his eye made it difficult for me to suppress that damn grin. "So, you pretty much fail at living up to the national stereotype, then?" I asked.
"Och aye the noo," he threw back, and I had no fucking idea what that meant. "You want to sit in? I'm not given to shoveling chips in my mouth on street corners. Again, national stereotype-fail. Sorry, but I do have some manners."
"Glad to hear it. I'd hate to think I'd just picked up a guy who couldn't give a hand job 'cause his knuckles were scraped from dragging on the ground." And Jesus, didn't my face burn when someone who'd placed, received and paid for their order turned to find a seat and looked right at me, eyes widening in that telltale did you really just say that expression.
Anonymous Scot --- I had to think of something to call him --- sniggered uncontrollably to the point of barely being able to put his order in when we at last reached the counter.
"Are you from Scotland?" was the response to his request for chips, no, I mean fries, and a large coke.
"Yes I am."
"Do you --- "
"No I don't know Gerry Butler. And you should know it's Gerard Butler, not Gerard. Emphasis on the first syllable. Honestly, those movie voiceovers really get on my nipple ends. I can't believe I just said movie, not 'film.' I've been in this country too long. So. Where's my chips?"
"Fries?"
"Yeah, that too."
Shaking his head, the guy on the other side of the counter took care of...I had to pick a nickname for him; I didn't want to spend the evening tangling with bed sheets, condoms and clunky epithets. Anyway, the 9
Scarlett Parrish cashier ended up apparently bedazzled. And all because of the expert in how to pronounce the name of one of the movie stars on my "please God, let him be gay" list. Such charisma.
"I need to think of something to call you," I commented once we were huddled in a discreet corner booth away from the windows, away from the counter, out of earshot of other people if we were careful enough. I just had to remember not to too loudly proclaim my desire for a hand job, no matter what state his knuckles were in. The thought dried my mouth in an instant and I took a swig of soda, wishing it were something stronger. I could have done with a stiff one right then.
"Simple solution is to tell you my name."
"Ah, but that would spoil things."
"Would it?" He lifted his eyebrows, silently bidding me continue, and shoved a couple of fries into his mouth. He even made that look good.
Clearly, it had been too long.
"What's the big deal about f --- " He cut himself off, looked around us, then leaned across the cheap, Formica table. Shoulders hunched conspiratorially, he tried again. "What's the big deal about not knowing the name of the guy you're spending the night with?"
He was so blatant about it the breath caught in my throat. I opened my mouth to say something but no sound came out.
"Sorry, Scottish thing. After dark is 'night,' traditionally. I should have said 'evening.' Wouldn't have wanted you to think I was being forward, would I?"
"I, uh..." How far to go? How much to explain? "It's just something I'd like to do, and haven't so far, so..."
"What, you've got a sexual bucket list?"
"More like a fuck-it list," I shot back.
He threw his head back and laughed, drawing the attention of a few other customers. They blinked at us, shrugged, and turned back to their late-night snacks. "An anonymous shag is on your to-do list?"
"Right." I saluted him with my Coke before taking a gulp. "This would have been so much easier if I'd just taken you outside and not bothered with this petty conversation."
"Ah, but this 'petty conversation' enables you to get to know me." He smirked, and gestured at me with a chip. Fry. "Okay, I can see that freaks you out. Right, we'll just say it enables me to get to know you. "
"Why would you want to?"
"You have to think about these things, Texas. You could be a serial killer for all I know."
"I'm not."
"If you were, that's exactly what you'd say to convince me."
"Hey, you spoke to me first. You landed yourself in this mess."
"Clearly, mocking your choice of beer is worthy of my throat being slit."
"Exactly." I pointed an accusatory finger. "Never mock a man's alcohol. Especially when you're the type of person who thinks fries and Coke is a good late night snack."
"Oh, like you've never sampled the delights of deep-fried pizza," he shot back. "This is America."
"Sounds more like Scottish cuisine to me."
"You could be right. There was a chippie..." He studied my frown and went on to explain. "Chip shop? Like this place only slightly more down-market. A chippie. Anyway, there was one near where I used to live that I swear, sold deep-fried Mars bars."
"Get the fuck out. That's just an urban legend made to turn stomachs the world over."
"These facts," he said grandly, pushing aside the polystyrene container his fries came in, "are true. God, I'm so out of shape. I used to be able to polish off a whole serving of chips faster than you could say knife. So, what are you going to call me?"
It took me a second or two to catch up, just like when we'd been outside and he'd stopped outside this place, leaving me to walk ahead and double back once I'd caught on. "Oh. Names. Right."
"Remember I told you I don't have an overtly Scottish name."
"So not Angus or Jock then."
"Definitely not. If you were going to name me..." He leaned back, spread his arms in that universal come and get me gesture and I promised myself silently that I definitely, definitely would. Later. No, not later.
Soon. "What would you choose?"
"God, I don't know." I shrugged, more of an uncomfortable rolling of my shoulders inside my jacket. "Mavis."
"Now I know you're taking the piss, Texas."
"And that's something you'd never do, right, Andr
ew? No, not that. You don't look like an Andrew. Even if he is your patron saint."
"The breadth of your knowledge impresses me."
"Wait till you see my girth." I winked, pleased with the way his cheeks colored ever so slightly. I'd made him blush. Not in embarrassment; he was too forward and shameless for that. I flattered myself it was anticipation.
"They do say everything's bigger in Texas."
"John."
"Boring."
"Bob."
"You'd be as well calling me 'Beige.'"
"Daniel."
He cocked his head, looked thoughtful. "Not bad."
"Michael." It was my turn to take a few seconds to mull over my latest choice. "Yeah, that suits you. No, wait --- James. Yes, definitely James. That's what I'll call you."
"Are you sure you don't want to choose Rapunzel?"
I had no idea what he meant by that. "You've got short hair."
"No, not Rapunzel. What the fuck am I talking about? I mean Rumplestiltskin. If you guess my real name you win a prize and all that."
"I'll stick to James."
"And 'James' will stick to you. Now." He --- James, I suppose his name was now --- stared at me as if I was expected to know what he thought.
"Tell me more."
"About?"
"Your fuck-it list. What else is on it besides --- " a quick glance around the room, checking no-one was within earshot " --- an anonymous fuck?"
"Are you volunteering to help with it?"
"Maybe." James lifted one eyebrow, making himself look perfectly devilish. I wondered how long it had taken him to perfect that expression.
It was an ideal blend of overt self-confidence and mischief.
I sat back, depriving myself of his aura, but at least that way I'd be able to think. "I hadn't really gotten around to those details."
"Detail, details, petty details," James singsonged, mirroring my posture then, but with an added smile. He took a breath as if preparing to say something, but spoke not a word.
There was a pause between us which only lasted for a few seconds, but the air crackled with promise.
And he was the next one to speak. "I've got an idea."
Chapter Three
"It's fucking freezing out here." I zipped my jacket up right to the neck, surprised by the drop in temperature while we'd been in the restaurant.
"You don't know cold until you've lived through a Scottish summer,"
James said, looking over his shoulder at me as he walked ahead. "And yes, I meant to say summer. Come on, hurry up."
"Where are we going? Please say somewhere indoors." Somewhere with a bed. Or a couch. Anywhere with a piece of furniture on which it would be comfortable to get horizontal. And naked. Hell, the floor would do.
"Not yet."
"Jesus."
"Austin." He stopped, cocked his head and looked at me studiously.
"I'm only trying to help."
"You can help by doing something to warm me up."
"Oh." James grinned. "You read my mind. That was exactly the plan. Actually, 'plan' makes it sound devious and that's so not me. Anyway. You have a fuck-it list that you appear to have neglected to do anything about or to give any thought to so, me, being the benevolent and sluttish chap I am, have decided to give you a hand."
"Oh really?"
"No, not like that." He shrugged. "Well, yes like that, but that wasn't what I had in mind. You can't tell me you've never had a hand job before. They have to be things you've never done in your life."
"Things, plural?"
"What can I say? I'm a man with a lot of energy."
Scarlett Parrish "That's good to know." I fell into step beside him when he started walking ahead, our steps just rapid enough to keep me warm, though not to the point of getting me out of breath.
"Up here."
"I..." I looked around us, as if any passersby would be capable of clarifying what James was hinting at. As it happened, there was hardly anyone else about. We'd passed a few bars, but there were no lines to get in. The clubs weren't open yet. A couple of fast food restaurants spilled bright light onto the pavements but real, live people? We'd passed very few. Downtown on a weekend night was surprisingly deserted --- on the surface. Most people were indoors. People with any sense. "You what? Where does that lead to?"
James had gestured to an alleyway between two stores; one selling shoes and the other books. I was handsomely shod and all right for reading material, and maybe the sudden drop in temperature had done something to my thinking ability but I wasn't following.
Maybe it wasn't the air temperature outside. Maybe it was the fact all the blood was rushing from my head to elsewhere.
"Just come with me instead of standing there asking questions. The best way to have them answered is to..." He gestured towards the archway before turning his back and walking. Expecting me to follow.
Which of course I did.
"Store backs and a delivery area I suppose," I murmured, half to myself, listening to the barely-there echo of my voice which emphasized how narrow the alleyway was.
"Correct to two decimal points." James waited for me to join him beyond the other end of the short alleyway and barely gave me time to take in the fact it was a delivery bay for surrounding stores before shoving me up against a brick wall, knocking the breath out of me. "Now I've got you where I want you," he said, "you get to tell me whether or not you've done this before."
"Done what before?" My voice sounded a bit wheezy then but James hadn't hurt me. It was the shock of his sudden movement that had my heart racing. "We're not doing anything, are we? Yet, I mean." I cleared my throat, but the nerves wouldn't settle. No, not nerves. That word was too close to "fear." More like anticipation.
"Had impure thoughts about another man and allowed yourself to act on them."
"Certainly not. What kind of a man do you think I --- Oh."
"Wrong way to put it, I suppose." James continued to fiddle with my belt. "After all, it won't be you acting on any impure thoughts. I planned to...Jesus. What the hell is up with this belt? Is it padlocked?"
"Oh look. James is suffering from a bad case of spazfinger."
"Fancy helping me out and getting your bloody jacket out of the way so I can see what I'm doing?"
"In the dark?" I asked, fumbling around with my jacket, unzipping it to free up access to my belt. Barely any lights from the streetlamps made it to where we stood; it was mostly moonlight and shadows. And James's silhouette which somehow still managed to broadcast that smirk of his.
"If I can't see what I'm doing I'll just have to fumble my way around and see what pops up, as it were." He gave a low laugh and muttered something to himself when he finally managed to get my belt buckle undone. The clasp jingled and I nearly said something like thank God.
Whatever he had in mind was welcome, despite the cold. The fact I didn't know his name. The fact he hadn't yet...
"You haven't even kissed me yet." Jesus, Lombard. The guy was just about to put his hand on your cock and you go and say that?
"Aw, that's so romantic. You want me to?"
"No, no, I was just saying. A mere observation." I held my hands up in mock surrender, a theatrical gesture, played up a little to ensure he'd see it in the dimness of wherever we were; I'd forgotten where. Having an ache in my cock I hoped he was about to relieve did something to my ability to hang on to minor facts. Like whether or not two guys getting it on in public was a crime or misdemeanor or just one of those things you really didn't want to get caught doing.
"Have you ever done this outdoors?"
"Made out with a guy?"
"Or a woman." Again, he laughed.
"Who hasn't?"
"Hand job?"
"If you're offering."
"I'll take that as a yes. Hmm." He took a half-step back, cocked his head. I wanted to reach out and run my fingers through his hair, but something held me back, said not yet. "So you want me to kiss you then?"
"It
would be the gentlemanly thing to do."
"Luckily for you, I'm no gentleman. Have you ever been kissed..."
James came at me again, slid his hand past the waistband of my shorts and I stifled a moan. "Well. Nature's been very kind to you, hasn't it?"
"One doesn't like to boast." I shrugged, faking nonchalance. Badly.
"Jesus." I couldn't speak for a second or two. He'd squeezed my cock gently and taken my breath away.
"So as I was saying, have you ever been kissed --- "
"On the cock? A time or two." Where the hell my snarky sense of humor was coming from I didn't know. I'd probably caught it from him.
I'd known him for, what, five minutes or so? And already I knew he was the sort of person who had a smart answer for everything.
"Outside?"
I cleared my throat, suddenly nervous. "Uh, no."
"Really? You've been missing out. Add that to your list, so we can cross it off."
"Are you for --- " But I had the answer to my incomplete question when his knees hit the ground with a muted thud. The passing thought I hope he didn't hurt himself disappeared when the warmth of his tongue teased at the tip of my cock. I think I groaned, or some other kind of strangulated sound got caught in my throat. "Oh. God." My hands grasped at thin air while I tried to decide whether or not to hold on to him, even running my hands through his hair like I'd wanted to earlier, but I didn't know if he liked that, if he'd want it.
Christ. Lombard, the guy's got your cock in his mouth and you only now realize you don't know whether or not he likes getting his hair pulled?
Don't do it, don't do it. Not yet.
I craned my neck, the brickwork of the wall behind rough against my scalp. It didn't hurt, was closer to uncomfortable, but I could handle it. It was the perfect counterpoint to the way James's tongue swirled around my cock.
I am so glad I came out tonight. I hadn't had a blow job like this in ages.
Ever, probably. James took more of me into his mouth and I didn't care about how cool the evening was now. All that mattered was the warmth of his mouth and what he was doing with his tongue. Tightening his mouth around me somehow --- sucking just hard enough to make me gasp --- and running the tip of his tongue from the base of my cock, along the vein.
Burn Page 2
