d by that point (probably to discreetly wipe his hand off on his shirt in disgust and to wish he had an industrial-sized bottle of hand sanitizer), so I didn’t have to worry about getting him any more wet then he already was.
We were seated almost immediately at a table near the sidewalk where we could see people walking by. Before I could open my mouth and find out exactly what would fall out, we were assaulted (yes, assaulted!) by what had to be the world’s most attractive waiter. He was all skinny and tall with eyelashes that looked like they had to be fake and eyes so green that you would have thought they were made of emeralds. His hair was dark and his skin was a lovely mocha color, like he bathed nude on a beach in the Dominican Republic, his lithe body and tawny muscles browned by the sun. He was wearing a red collared shirt, much like the one I wore, but he looked far better than I ever could. In a nutshell, he was fucking gorgeous, and I was dressed like a waiter at the café. Fan-fucking-tastic.
And of course, when he saw Vince, you would have thought he was going to flop his dick out on the table, crawl into Vince’s lap, and rut against him right in front of me.
“Good evening,” he purred at Vince, ignoring me completely. “My name is Santiago, and it will be my pleasure to… serve you tonight.” He looked Vince up and down, and I had an urge to call 911 for the eye-rape I was witnessing. It didn’t help that Santiago had an accent that made you want to either stab him or touch his balls. Guess which one I wanted to do?
Vince grinned up at him, though part of me realized he was oblivious to Santiago’s (who names their kids like this?) blatant “come fuck me” gaze. The other, more impractical, part of me wanted to punch Santiago in the back of the head and then throw a glass of water in Vince’s face for even considering looking so attractive in public. I was able to choke this part down. Barely.
“Hey, Santiago,” Vince said. “We’re going to need some time to decide.”
“Oh, of course!” Santiago gushed. “If you need any help with the menu”—or getting your cock sucked was the clear implication—“please don’t hesitate to flag me down, because I’m here for you. I’m sure I could see those arms from a distance, though.” He winked and dragged his fingers along Vince’s bicep. I eyed the tight polo shirt Vince was wearing, his arms straining against the sleeves, his chest hard against the fabric. I could even see the outline of his nipple piercing. I’m sure Santiago could too, because his gaze strayed over Vince’s chest and stopped exactly where the bar was poking through. He didn’t lift his fingers from Vince’s arm.
“Can we get some bread and some butter up in here?” I blurted out, sounding way fatter than I actually was. “I’m hungry.”
Santiago looked startled, as if he was only then aware of my presence at the table. When he saw me, a grimace came over his face like he smelled something awful. But then he twisted his lips into what I’m sure he thought was a professional smile, but was absolutely sardonic. “Of course, sir,” he said politely. “I shall get you some bread and butter. Lots and lots and lots of butter.” He turned back to Vince and the smile turned dazzling again. “And you, sir? I can get you anything you want while you wait for your”—he glanced back at me—“father’s bread.”
“Father?” I repeated, outraged.
Vince didn’t get the dig. “That’s not my father,” he said to Santiago. “That’s Paul.”
“Oh!” Santiago said, as if that explained everything. “So he’s your accountant or something?”
Vince’s brow furrowed. “He’s not an accountant. We work together.”
Relief spread over Santiago’s face. “Do you?” he asked, his voice again a purr. “Well, that certainly is good news. I’ll be right back with your coworker’s loaf of bread that he really seems to want, and then maybe you and I can get to know each other a bit better.” He winked and walked away, his hips doing enough of a roll to put Helena Handbasket to shame.
“Wow,” Vince said. “He sure seemed interested in you. I wonder if I should be jealous at all.” He looked at me with a pretty smile.
“I don’t think it was me,” I said, trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice. “In case you didn’t notice, he was practically fucking you right in front of me.”
Vince laughed. “What? You’re so full of shit. He was just being nice.”
“He was rubbing all over you!”
Vince shrugged. “I didn’t even notice. I was too busy watching you.”
My eyes bulged. “What… you can’t say shit… like that… so unfair… I don’t even….”
“You’re so cute when you sputter, you know that?” Vince said, reaching over to take my hand on top of the table. I thought about pulling it away, but his hand was warm and it seemed awfully rude to not allow him the comfort of my touch.
Santiago chose this moment to walk back to the table, and I knew the moment he saw our hands joined because he almost tripped and fell right into Vince’s lap. Vince didn’t even look up at him; he sat there, rubbing his thumb over the back of my hand. Santiago scowled at him, then looked at me with a dark smirk. “What happened to your face?” he asked me. “You look like you got punched in the eye.”
I blushed and mumbled something incoherent, looking down at our joined hands.
Vince took that as his cue. “Me and Paul are into some pretty kinky shit,” he told Santiago, whispering loudly. “You should see the bite marks on my ass. Nobody gives it to me like my boyfriend.”
I don’t know who was more shocked at Vince’s pronouncement, me or Santiago. While Santiago was probably more focused on the kinky-sex aspect of it, all I could hear in my head was the word boyfriend, boyfriend, boyfriend over and over again. I tightened my grip on Vince’s hand and I’m pretty sure I almost broke three of his fingers by the slight wince he gave.
“Boyfriend?” Santiago asked in a low voice, sounding incredulous.
“Boyfriend?” I asked, high-pitched and slightly hysterical.
Vince shrugged and smiled at me.
I didn’t even notice Santiago leaving because I was staring at Vince like he’d made the most insane statement in the history of the English language, which, to be fair, he pretty much had. Granted, I did maybe spend a second or two at the thought of putting bite marks on his ass (I mean, come on; who wouldn’t?) but I couldn’t seem to wrap my mind around the word boyfriend. As sad as it might seem, I couldn’t think of a time when anyone had actually called me that before, nor did I think there was anyone I had thought of that way. The last guy I’d dated (the psychic psycho, for those keeping track) turned out to be batshit crazy. I didn’t do the boyfriend thing. I was fucking Paul Auster. It didn’t happen to me.
But Vince continued to smile at me and he continued to hold my hand. He looked like he was going to say something further, but he stopped himself. He was obviously waiting for me to say something, anything, but since it was me, I let the silence drag on, making things even more awkward than they were before. Finally, I said the only thing I could think of.