Scott arches a brow before he turns back.
“Hi,” I say in a voice I don’t recognize when I arrive at their table.
Shane and Khalil have a wariness in their eyes that makes me wonder if I could have handled things better when I left.
“How are you, Becca?” Devin asks.
My hands grip my order pad in front of me as if in need of some sort of anchor. “I’m okay. How are all of you?”
“We’re okay,” Khalil says.
“What can I get you to drink?”
They don’t have orders at the ready, but after some back and forth discussion about what beer we have, I return to the counter with their requests. As I convey their orders to Tom, I realize my hands are shaking.
What’s wrong with me? They’re just men.
Gorgeous, kind, and caring men, but also — let’s not forget — domineering men.
I hold my head higher and keep my shoulders back when I return to their table. As I set down their drinks, Devin asks, “Has everything been all right?”
Except for lying awake at night missing you, sure, everything’s been fine, I think. And missing you throughout much of the rest of the day, but otherwise, yeah, just fine.
“Has your mother been around again?” Khalil asks, adding to Devin’s question.
I shake my head. “She hasn’t bothered us. She doesn’t know where we are, but she hasn’t even been texting anymore.”
“And where are you?” Shane asks, before quickly adding, “If you don’t mind telling us.”
I look more closely at him, and am shocked to see the hangdog look on his face. “I found an apartment here on the island. And don’t worry,” I say, glancing at Marcos, “there’s no mold in sight.”
“Glad to hear it,” Marcos says, the rich depth of his voice taking me right back to nights spent in submission in his room.
“Anything you need help with there?” Khalil asks. “Moving in furniture, or anything?”
“No, we’re all settled.” We actually do need to buy a TV and stand, but I don’t know if I could handle having the men in the apartment. I’d be too tempted to tackle them and have my way with them.
“Well, if you ever need anything,” Khalil says, “just reach out.”
Just reach out. I want to reach out and touch them, and that’s my whole problem. “Okay. Thanks.”
An awkward moment follows, during which I think they’re about to say something, and maybe they think the same of me, but none of us speak.
In the end, I tell them I need to get back to work, which is true. I watch them, while trying to pretend I’m not, until eventually they finish their drinks and leave, offering nods and small waves from across the room when they do.
52
Torn in two pieces
The next night, I’m filled with hope, thinking there’s a good chance the four men will return to Rusty’s.
They do not.
It’s a short ride home, but I spend it listening to a blues stream, singing along with the mournful music and feeling the exquisite pain of wanting something I won’t even let myself have.
I wonder if Marcos is still listening to the blues.
To rub more salt in my wounds, I go to the bookstore in Whitman. One of my favorite authors has a new release, but my mind is filled with thoughts of Khalil. I remember meeting him, excited about the prospect of one night with him, and now I can’t get him out of my head.
Or my heart.
I stop at an oceanside park on my way home, planning to treat myself to some reading time, but I can’t get into the story, and I’m sure it’s not the author’s fault.
I think about how I read that erotic scene to Khalil, and then he and the others brought it to life. When will I ever experience something as amazing as that again?
Two nights later, they come into Rusty’s again. My heart starts pounding as soon as I see them, and before I can think better of it, I shamelessly rush over to them. “Hi,” I say, sounding clever and brilliant.
A smile tugs at one corner of Khalil’s mouth and all four men chorus greetings.
“Are you here to see Barrett?” I ask.
“Nope,” Shane says. “Just here to have a drink.”
My brows lift, and my heart soars. They’re cleaned up like last time. It’s not like they wandered in here after work, and it’s not as if this is their neighborhood bar. They came out of their way, and surely I must be the reason. Right?
“It’s been boring at home lately,” Khalil explains.
“Is that so?”
“We’ve gotten tired of beating each other at darts,” Marcos says, making Khalil and I laugh.
“What would you like to drink? Same as last time?”
They agree and head to a table, while I go to the bar, feeling like I’m floating on air.
But why?
I’m ridiculously happy to see them, but it doesn’t change anything, does it? Sure, I’d love to see even more of them, and maybe spend a night at their house occasionally, but that’s a really bad idea.