Ex-Daredevil

by Zoe Lee

  “No, but I’ve done drag a few times for parties. I had fun, except for the high heels, honestly.” I chuckled, remembering how much my feet and calves had killed me the next mornings. “Not my jam.”

  He hummed and guided me in a half-circle so that we could head back towards his office. “Whenever my mom did costumes for drag queens, I’d curl up and listen to their stories,” he offered, and since it seemed rare for him to talk about his past much, I paid close attention. “They were older, so a lot of it was about learning queer history, too.”

  I smiled, trying to picture a much younger Eliott listening, absorbing and processing the stories the way he did all of mine, and said, “He’d kill me if he heard me say this, but it’s one of the reasons I love working for Barley, too. He’s only in his late forties, but Barnyard formed in the mid-Nineties, so he was around during so many amazing periods of music history. Bonus, he and the rest of the band were never into drugs or had drinking problems, so they remember all of the wild things, the free love, and the awesome concerts of course.”

  “That seems rare,” he commented, tossing our empty cups into a garbage can.

  “Oh, they’re really proud of it—and they should be,” I said, daring to hug his arm a little closer so that our sides were pressed together.

  “But I don’t want to lose your attention gossiping about rock stars,” I teased, my heart bouncing when he laughed and dipped in to kiss my jaw. “I did get one or two inside scoops from Carina, before she and Barley split.”

  Giving a dramatic gasp, he stopped in the middle of the street, causing some people behind us to swear and shove around us angrily, and caught my shoulders. “Tell me.”

  I pretended to think about it, tapping my lips with one finger. “Hmm. Why should I?”

  He bent in and breathed, “I’ll give you a hint about my first Boring Date plans.”

  “Cheater,” I cried, but then I happily gave up right away. “Okay so do you want to hear about the time she had a wardrobe malfunction in front of an actual queen or the time she bought Barley twenty-five pairs of gray sweatpants for their first Christmas together?”

  Starting to walk again because I knew he hated taking too much time for lunch even though it wasn’t like anyone was timing him, I jumped when he took my hand in his.

  With a little furrow of worry between his eyebrows, he darted a look at our hands.

  “I’ve never held hands like this before,” I whispered. His eyes went wide, but his grip only tightened like he thought I was about to tear my hand from his and run away screaming. “I told you, I don’t really date. But I like it. I’m not afraid of new things.”

  This sweetness softened his mouth for a second, and then it curled up lazily. “You’re cute, but don’t think that confession is going to get you out of telling me about Carina.”

  “Why would I try to get out of that? I want my hint!”

  Eliott chuckled, but then sighed when we crossed the street and were at the corner of his building. “As much as I want to hear this now, I should get back to work. Are you free for dinner tonight? I could make fried rice and you can tell me all about the gray sweatpants.”

  “I’d love to,” I said. “I’ll bring something to drink.”

  We hung there, just looking at each other, still holding hands. I wanted to kiss him so badly, but I respected his boundaries and didn’t want to go for it so close to his work where a coworker or boss might see. But his eyelashes fluttered, and then he was kissing me, gently pressing me against the wall, and his cool fingertips were sliding around my neck.

  “Hey,” he said softly once he’d pulled back.

  “Yeah?”

  “Holding hands is boring, and you love it,” he said, trying to hold back a smirk.

  True or not, I couldn’t let him have the last word, so I slowly worked open the buttons on his wool coat and murmured in my huskiest voice, “I just love trying new things, Eliott.”

  He hissed and ran his hands through his hair. “Good thing my first Boring Date is definitely going to be something new,” he rallied. “Can’t wait to see how hot it gets you.”

  Always surprised when he rose to the occasion and was so deliciously sensual, I let out a low groan and clapped my hand over my heart. “That comeback got me hot,” I whined.

  “Be good and I’ll see you at six,” he replied, giving me one last quick kiss.

  “I’m always good,” I called out after him, grinning like an idiot.

  As I was walking towards the train station, my phone buzzed and I hoped it wasn’t Barley. Since I was supposed to have the afternoon off, I wanted to go to go to a comic shop or take a hot bubble bath or something. Just have a little time to bask in this good feeling.

  Instead, it was from Eliott—a photo of him slouched in his office chair, hips arched forward to show off his hard cock ruining the svelte lines of his tailored suit pants.

  Eliott: You got me halfway hard by holding my hand and kissing me like that.

  Eliott: I got me all the way hard thinking how I’m going to seduce you over fried rice.

  My knee-jerk reaction was to tease him, to make fun of him for getting hard over something so plain and domestic like cooking at home. But the way I couldn’t stop smiling at the photo, focusing on his chagrined expression and not his cock, proved I was into it too.

  Gavin: Did you have to set a timer on your camera to take that shot?

  Eliott: Is it that complicated? If so, I feel even smarter than usual since I know how.

  Gavin: Give me an hour and I’ll send you some timed shots while I’m in the bathtub.

  Eliott: My afternoon is back-to-back meetings and calls and I need to concentrate. So how about you save that for later? I have some eucalyptus bubble bath at my place.

  I bounced down into the train station and headed for my favorite comic book store, where I would read some good stories until it was time to go to Eliott’s for another date.

  Chapter 19

  Eliott

  After our night at my place with fried rice and a sexy bubble bath, work for Gavin picked up again because Barley and the band had to go to L.A. to meet with their label.

  Because our… whatever we were doing was so new, I’d been unsure what to expect while he was gone, but we’d kept texting like we always did, and I got a lot of pictures. Surfing, Barley and men I assumed were his bandmates in the background. A fire in an enclosed pit with a dozen marshmallows on sticks roasting. Gavin with half his face squished into his pillow, his hair like some painting of a mermaid’s fanned out in beautiful disarray all around him. A shot of him driving what looked like a very cool car, obviously not taken by him but by whoever was in the passenger seat. A brownie sundae once.

  By the time he was back and it was the night of my first Boring Date, I was nervous and second-guessing myself. Part of it was that we hadn’t seen each other in a little bit. But the bigger part was that this bet gave me a very fine line to walk. While I wanted to win, to do so would mean I bored him to death, which was the diametric opposite of what anyone wanted on a date. Well, if they liked the other person at all, anyway. And I did. I did like him.

  But I’d gotten tickets and it was too late to do anything but be confident in my choice.

  He drove to my condo and put the motorcycle in the garage, then hopped into my station wagon and patted the dashboard like it was a faithful old horse. I’d told him to wear something nice—since all boring things require wearing something nice, he’d texted me sarcastically. He was wearing navy dress pants and a black shirt, very carefully only partially tucked in, and the fabric was incredibly soft and thin, so I thought that it would be see-through under direct lighting. I couldn’t help but stroke my hand up his thigh, appreciating the quality of the pants only half as much as I appreciated his lean muscle.

  Shifting under my touch as if he couldn’t decide if he wanted to allow it or not, he taunted, “Whatever you planned, I’m so prepared. I barely slept last night and I ate an ent
ire turkey, so I’m super tired. But I drank a quadruple espresso. That should even it out, right?”

  “If you fall asleep, I’m counting it as a win,” I said mildly.

  I could tell he was actually, maybe nervous, so I waited him out.

  “You stubborn ass,” he finally gave up and exclaimed. “Where are you taking me?”

  “To the ballet,” I said coolly. “You really should’ve guessed. I was going to take you to the Lyric, but I’m not a big fan of the opera they’ve got running right now. Be grateful.”

  He groaned dramatically and slumped in his seat. “You better feed me first.”

  “I thought you ate an entire turkey.”

  “I’d be dead if I did that,” he grumbled. “I’m going to need the best conversation of my life to make this up to me, Eliott. Scintillating. Fascinating. Engaging. You hear me?”

  “Sure, sweetheart,” I taunted right back, stroking up his thigh a little higher to make him squirm again. “I don’t want to do something formal for dinner, so I thought we’d just get sandwiches and milkshakes close by the theatre. How about you scandalize the clientele and tell me all about this extensive list of kinks you have,” I offered blandly.

  “If they horrify you enough, will you go to the ballet without me?”

  “Hey, I’m playing fair, don’t try to whine your way out of this,” I rebuked him.

  That made him hum thoughtfully. “Do you have a favorite ballet?”

  Startled that he’d stopped being petulant so quickly, I answered, “Sheherazade. I don’t even know if it’s performed anymore, but I found a video of it online. It’s very sensual, and Najinsky, who is one of the most famous male ballet dancers, was in the original.”

  “I love ice skating at the Olympics and I feel like I’ve heard that music used,” he said.

  Somehow that somehow segued into us discussing our favorite movie soundtracks and scores. Before I knew it, I’d parked and we were in line for food. Gavin was pleased by the place, low-key with a very stoned college kid playing guitar and warbling something unintelligible. We took a table outside because the weather was holding, and because there weren’t many people around in case he wanted to take me up on my half-joking kinks idea.

  He tossed his dress shoes up on another chair, slurped his chocolate shake, and studied me while he deep-throated the straw. Eventually he came up to gasp a wet breath.

  “I like spanking, super light bondage like a tie around my wrists, getting pinned against walls, exhibitionism as long as no one tries to touch me, and watching porn while I’m fucking,” he then rattled off as if he were telling me his favorite meal, so blasé that it took me until he was completely done to even register the meaning of any of the words.

  “Holy shit,” I croaked.

  “Can’t handle it?” he asked innocently, eyes gleaming in challenge, sure I couldn’t.

  So I hooked an elbow over the back of my chair, stroked my jaw, and tried not to sound like this was the first time I’d ever said all of this out loud. “I like dick pics, lap dances, men in panties, light bondage with silk ropes, comeplay, and me clothed while you’re naked.”

  “Whaaaa—” he choked.

  “Any deal breakers?” I asked coolly.

  “Hang on, hang on,” he said, flapping one hand a little frantically. “You—for real?”

  Shrugging, I tried not to blush or sweat under his slack-jawed inspection of me.

  Finally he gave an epic groan and took an enormous bite of his sandwich, chewed it like he was going for a speed eating record, and then accused me, “That’s sabotage, Eliott!”

  “If anything, I’m helping you out. If the ballet is so boring, now you’ll have something to think about,” I countered philosophically, carefully picking up my sandwich.

  He snorted.

  “It’s auspicious that our kinks seem to match pretty well in style and intensity,” I commented, and although I had to work to keep the tone casual, it was completely true.

  “‘Auspicious,’” he repeated deadpan. “I’m going to have to look that one up.”

  I surveyed him thoroughly and murmured, “I don’t think you will.”

  He flashed me a smile, quick like lightning in a bottle.

  As if by agreement, we ate in sexually tense, but otherwise comfortable silence. I appreciated it, like a good wine, rolling it around in my mind to taste all of its nuances. There were not many people I enjoyed spending time with, and my mom was the only one who I would be quiet with like this, if we were in the mood for it, without it being weird.

  Once we were done eating, we walked over to the theatre, where I retrieved our tickets from will call. Under the lobby lights, a sort of old-fashioned yellow that I’d always thought was trying to mimic lamplight, Gavin’s purple streaks shone like amethysts around a grande dame’s neck. It was in some sort of French braid, but bundled up at the back of his neck so that the interwoven design looked almost geometric, like a Fabergé egg.

  “So tell me about ballet,” he said as the lights flashed politely.

  “You’ll be shocked, but I love that every single movement is perfectly precise. But somehow, it’s still emotional,” I explained in a quiet voice, already feeling the excitement that was expressed in theatres in hushed anticipation.

  His eyes locked on mine, shifting side to side minutely as if what I’d said had solved some great mystery to him.

  Clearing my throat, feeling vulnerable for some reason, I added, “The Joffrey Ballet is an amazing company, very famous. They perform classic and modern ballets. Tonight’s a classic one.”

  He let out a delighted “Oooh” when we walked into the theatre, which was ornate, gold leaf everywhere and the seats and stage curtains all rich red velvet. The space was large, but everyone’s fancy fabrics rustled, creating this undertone of graciousness.

  While we waited for the show to start, Gavin craned his neck around from our seats, commenting on people’s outfits and couples who looked mismatched. I considered myself observant, but the way he saw things was fascinating to me, taking in details and painting stories about the people based on them. I was almost sorry when the lights dimmed.

  But as soon as the curtains opened and the music began, I was swept up in the ballet.

  Chapter 20

  Gavin

  The ballet started out slow, just like I’d always imagined ballets to be, with little fussy steps and hand gestures. The dancers looked so fragile, the bones sharp in their upper bodies and the women’s ankles, and the costumes were stiff and strange. Even from our seats in the beautiful Auditorium Theatre, I could see their heavy-handed stage makeup.

  The moment the first dancer leapt into the air, I gasped and reached out to grab Eliott’s hand. I couldn’t help thinking, How can bodies that look so easily broken do that and not fall?

  But the woman landed as if she had wings, a man there to take her hand and waist and send her into spins even though I couldn’t figure out how she’d gotten the momentum.

  I was transported and enchanted, suddenly and completely.

  There were lulls, sequences that seemed like standards, or like they were designed to show off the technical skills of the dancers as they moved with perfect synchronicity. But as the performance went on, I started to think that maybe they were almost like the lulls in action and horror movies, building the tension. They kept me on edge, waiting for the next explosion of bodies into fantastical, inhuman shapes that somehow conveyed deeply human emotions. I wasn’t able to follow the story, unfamiliar with this language, but I didn’t care.

  I was almost dazed when it was done, clapping as wildly as I would have at the end of a favorite song at a concert, knowing it was too frenzied for this atmosphere.

  Eliott looked over at me as he slid the hand closer to me through his hair, and there was something shimmering, this certainty that he’d surprised me again. That he’d given me a gift that I hadn’t known I could ever possibly expect or appreciate. A month ago, it would hav
e pissed me off, sure he was being smug that he’d taught me a lesson. Tonight, though, there was this certainty in my guts that it was sincere happiness because I really liked it.

  There was no way to understand why things were flowing so well that, even though it hadn’t been much time at all. I was already outgrowing the idea of just going out. But I wasn’t sure I could be the first one to say something about it, because it felt like an admission of weakness, something that someone could hold against me.

  Maybe not Eliott. But he wasn’t the first man I’d had these thoughts about, wanting to shift from casual sex or flirtation into something more, only to be dismissed. Even if I thought it was a good idea, I didn’t have the experience to tell him how it felt different to me now, more than sex or a bet.

  But I did know that I wanted him to take me back to his place, to ease this ache in one way if I wasn’t ready to try to ease it in any other, scarier ways.

  Outside, I breathed in the mellow night air as we made our way back to his car.

  “You liked it,” Eliott stated in that quiet, collected way he had, as he started driving.

  I wanted to play it cool, but I was a little weak right then, given my state of mind, so I blurted out, “It’s like an extreme sport! I can’t believe what those dancers can do!”

  We talked about our favorite parts and I asked if different movements or poses had a certain meaning in the language of ballet, and before I knew it, we were in his garage.

  “Do you want to come up for a drink?” he asked.

  “Is that code for you’re going to put out?” I retorted, a dumb question for a dumb question. He only laughed and brought me upstairs and into his kitchen, where he got out a bottle of scotch, glasses, and ice cubes. I watched him make the drinks, inhaling the unique scent of the liquor, and flipped through all of the things I wanted to do with him.