Only Trick

He parks the motorcycle and removes my helmet.

I shake out my hair like one of those women in a Garnier haircare commercial. Sadly … I don’t think I hit the sexy mark. It’s tangled and knotted in my face. “Why are we here?” I paw at the hair stuck to my face like a dog with fleas.

He brushes a few stray strands that I miss then smiles. “I thought we could hang out awhile.”

I squint my eyes like he’s talking Chinese.

He grabs my hand and pulls me toward the elevator. “Maybe I’ll be your first.”

My grip tightens as the elevator ascends. “My first?”

“Yes, your first friend.”

We step off the elevator and Trick turns on the lights.

“Why?”

He twists his mouth like he’s chewing on the inside of his cheek. “I don’t know. Maybe I need a friend too.”

Just my luck. My first official friend is a guy, but not just a guy … a squirrel, a gay squirrel. I’m not sure if he is a gift or a curse. “So what are you thinking? Battleship or Scrabble?”

Trick gives me the you-just-grew-two-more-heads look. “You’re serious?”

“No?” I cringe at my own awkwardness. Okay, I’m a little serious.

He chuckles. “You cannot be that socially inept.”

Yes, I can and I am. I have proper social skills when it comes to dinner parties and medical conferences. I’ve dated several men since I graduated college, but the relationships have only been about sex. We didn’t “hang out” much aside from the bedroom and restaurants. Number of slumber parties I’ve attended: 0. Number of girls’ weekends I’ve been on: 0. If Trick doesn’t want a blowjob or a quick roll in the hay, then I’m in foreign territory.

“So what were you thinking?”

Trick sits down on the couch and rests his ankle on his knee. “Well, I only have to beat a subpar lay so …”

“Not this again! Steven is a surgeon and his mind is always on his work. It’s not that he doesn’t have skills.” I plop down on the couch next to him, leaving just enough room that I don’t get a whiff of his pheromones that seem to make me a bit rabid. If this friendship is going to work, I need to get past my physical craving for him.

“He just has ADD in bed?”

I snicker. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but maybe.”

Trick’s smile could melt the north pole; I don’t know why he’s so reserved with it. “So how’d you meet Subpar Steve?”

I pull off my boots and tuck my feet underneath me. “Our fathers introduced us at a political fundraiser last year. My father is running for his second term in the senate, and Steven’s dad is a wealthy son of a bitch that wants a shitload of favors. So they’re a match made in campaign corruption heaven.”

He chuckles. “Your dad must be proud of your glowing endorsement.”

“My father has never been proud of me for anything.” Oh God! Those are cringe-worthy words, the ones I’ve never let myself say aloud.

“Daddy issues? Might that explain why you settle for relationships that are subpar?”

“My daddy issues extend way beyond my love life. But yes, guys love that I have no expectations of them. We can mutually benefit from meaningless sex without fear that I’ll go all Fatal Attraction on them. And truthfully, I couldn’t care less. Men are cheating, lying pigs.” Trick frowns. “Present company excluded.” I try to smile past the foot in my mouth. “My first two years of college I went through a black, sort of goth phase.”

Trick rubs the back of his fingers across his bristly chin and raises his eyebrows.

“I don’t know why you wear guyliner when you work, but I like the way it reminds me of the two best and worst years of my life. Finding yourself in college is such a cliché, but that’s what I did … Unfortunately, I had to lose myself for two years first. I died my hair black, wore all black makeup and clothing, and experimented with sex, alcohol, and a few recreational drugs.” I laugh. “God, my father was so pissed. But what did he expect? I hadn’t had the best role models in my life, except for my nana, she’s amazing.”

“Where does your nana live?”

“Lincoln Park. Not too far from me. She’s the only blood relative I have left on my mom’s side, and she moved in with us after I was born.” My voice fades to just barely above a whisper. “My mom died giving birth to me, so Nana basically raised me.”

Trick gives me a sad smile that I return with a such-is-life shrug. The heavy air suffocates the moment leaving an awkward silence. “Mom died” is the biggest conversation killer.

“So … if you hadn’t taken pity on me and offered dinner and ‘hanging out,’ what would you be doing tonight?”