Kept Man: Firsts and Forever Stories

He returned a few minutes later, carefully balancing two white, rectangular plates. “Crisis averted,” he said. “I did end up burning a batch of buns to a crisp, but I’d made extra.”

When he put a plate in front of me, I told him, “This is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.” Three miniature burgers were lined up in a row. Not sliders—they were much smaller than that. Each one had a quarter-sized bun, a tiny patty, a slice of cheese, a dollop of sauce, and a shard of lettuce.

“They’re veggie burgers, since I’m a vegetarian. Well, technically, pescatarian,” he said. “Not that that’s relevant here. There’s no fish involved. Anyway, I hope they taste okay.”

We both picked up a tiny burger, and he tapped his to mine in a toast of sorts before we tossed them back. Then I told him, “It’s delicious.”

He seemed relieved. “I’m glad you like it. I just realized there’s no rhyme or reason to dinner, though. The main course is paella, and for dessert I made chocolate mousse. It’s been a long time since I cooked dinner for anyone, and I didn’t really think it through.”

“It all sounds wonderful.”

He chewed his lower lip for a moment, and then he snuck a glance at me as he said, “You don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

“You don’t have to try to put a positive spin on all my bad ideas and fumbles. Please just be honest with me.”

“Okay,” I said, as I picked up another micro-burger. “Here’s me being totally honest. This is fun, the tiny burger tastes great, and everything really does sound wonderful.” I tossed it into my mouth.

Micah grinned at me. “Fine. But that request to be honest applies across the board.”

“Not a problem.”

He circled around the bar and sat on a stool behind it, instead of selecting the one next to me. Then he said, “Is it okay to ask you questions, or is everything about you none of my business?”

“I suppose it depends on the question.”

“Fair enough. You can just tell me to fuck off any time I get too personal, but I’m curious, how old are you?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“I’m thirty-eight. Is that…I mean, do you like older men, or…”

He faltered for a moment. It was obvious he had very little experience with prostitutes, because he was asking if I was into him. I actually was, but that didn’t matter. I told him, “I’ve always been attracted to men who are older than me.”

There was a lot of vulnerability in his eyes when he said, “I know you just agreed to be honest, but there’s no way you’d tell me if you thought an eleven year age gap was gross, would you?”

How the hell did someone that gorgeous end up so insecure? “It’s not at all. Seriously. You’re beautiful, Micah, and I’m glad I’m here with you this evening.” I reached across the bar and gave his hand a gentle squeeze before picking up my wine glass.

“I want to believe you,” he said softly.

I changed the subject with, “Tell me about this house. It’s really something, and I bet there’s a story behind it.”

He looked around and winced. “I bought it when I was twenty-two and turned it into my dream home. I was the definition of nouveau riche, and this is what seemed classy to me at that age. I never bothered to remodel it, so now it feels like a shrine to a version of me that doesn’t exist anymore—a naïve kid who grew up broke, then made more money than I’d ever dreamed of and thought the good times would never end.”

“Would it be rude of me to ask how you made your fortune?”

He seemed surprised as he met my gaze and murmured, “You don’t know who I am.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t apologize. I guess it makes sense that you don’t recognize me. When my career was at its peak, you were only eleven years old.” He thought about it and added, “Actually, I like the fact that you don’t have any preconceived notions about me.” He drank some beer while I finished my wine and polished off my mini burgers, and then he asked, “Can we move to the dining room? The paella is in a holding pattern, and I’m not sure how long it’ll last like that.”

“Sure. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Nope. Just follow me.”

Calling the dining room elaborate was an understatement. It had deep blue walls, a huge, dark oil painting of a ship on a stormy sea, a mahogany table that would seat twenty people with room to spare, gold accents, and for some reason, a mirrored ceiling. When I glanced up at it, he said, “Yeah, I don’t really know what my logic was there. I think I might have seen something like that in a casino and decided it was super cool.”