Page 26 of Spilled Coffee

“George, darling… Meet Ethan. Ethan, this gorgeous creature is George—my significant other.”

A lanky guy in skinny jeans and a gray t-shirt grinned, his mop of dark curls bouncing as he handed Ethan a flyer. “Lucy’s—it’s a fabulous new club. Free passes for you and a friend. You simply must come.”

Ethan frowned at the neon-pink details. “Is this a gay club? Only I’m not?—”

“Straight folks welcome too. We don’t discriminate against heteros.” George smiled, his voice a smooth tenor. “Free shots, killer DJ—best in town. You don’t want to miss out.” He wrapped an arm around Marcus, pulling him into a slow, tender kiss.

Ethan watched their easy affection with unexpected fascination. They seemed so open and natural together, a stark contrast to his complicated situation with Logan. It sparked something—hope, maybe?—easing the tension of the last two days.

Ethan stood at the door with the bag crinkling in his grip as Marcus called out with a dramatic wave, “Honey, you ever need to talk, you come back and see Auntie Marcus and Uncle George. The door is always open for gorgeous men with questions.”

Ethan nodded, then smiled as he stepped out into the dusk with renewed determination.

Logan might be angry… but I’m not giving up.

CHAPTER 13

Ethan paced his apartment,bare feet scuffing the hardwood floor as steam from his shower still clung to the air. A faint dampness lingered on his skin.

His place was small, cramped really. A one-bedroom box with beige paint, a sagging couch, and a kitchen counter cluttered with empty takeout boxes he hadn’t bothered to toss.

He clutched his second beer of the evening, the bottle cool and slick against his palm. Condensation beaded under his fingers as he swigged it down, the sharp fizz biting his throat. His other hand fidgeted with the dark blue box fromSecrets. The toy inside felt like a silent taunt, its weight shifting as he turned it over and over.

He circled the room. Kitchen to couch, couch to window, and back again. His damp towel slung low around his hips, the white cotton brushing his thighs with every restless step.

He stopped at the counter, staring down at the box, its glossy surface catching the light from the bulb overhead.

The knot of nerves in his stomach twisted tighter, a tangled mess he couldn’t shake. “What the hell,” he sighed, voice rough in the quiet, before tossing it down with a soft clatter beside a half-empty bag of chips.

He chugged more beer, the cold rush doing little to dull the buzz in his head.

The toy lay there, almost accusing, and his eyes wouldn’t leave it. He’d psyched himself up in the shower. Hot water pounding his back, steam clouding the glass, imagining Logan’s hands. Telling himself he’d use it, prove he could handle this. But when it came to it, standing naked under the spray with the box waiting on the sink, he’d balked. He couldn’t do it.

“What’s the point,” he huffed, running a hand over his damp hair. Droplets flicked onto his bare shoulders as he drained another gulp of beer, the bottle’s label peeling under his thumb.

What was the point when Logan wouldn’t even talk to him?This wasn’t some solo thrill. This was for Logan. It was about being with him, not jerking off for kicks. The toy was a bridge to that moment, a step toward what he craved, but without Logan’s touch, it felt hollow. Pointless. Almost perverse.

He’d bought it to show he could play by Logan’s rules, but now… with radio silence and that last furious glare burned into his memory, it mocked him.

Two days of downtime, and he was a wreck. Sleepless, pacing, trapped in a loop of regret and want. Should have taken it out. Should have listened. The thought stung, sharp and bitter.

He paced again, beer bottle swinging as he circled past the fridge which hummed faintly, past the window where dusk bled purple over the parking lot, back to the counter where the box waited like judge and jury.

His bare chest prickled, the towel chafing his hips as he tugged it tighter, a nervous tic.

The beer wasn’t cutting it. He grabbed the remote, flicking on the TV. Some mindless cop show blared, sirens wailing.

He slumped onto the couch for barely five minutes before he was up again, pacing the same path. He felt stupid; it was insane to be obsessing like this. Logan consumed him: that sauna heat,the press of his hands, the rough edge of his voice promising everything. It replayed on a loop. Every groan, every touch. Until Ethan couldn’t tell if he was angry or aching.

Brick’s text flashed back.Beers and ladies.

“Brick’s right,” he muttered, checking his watch, the tritium markers on his Luminox glowing in the dimming light. “I’m gonna get drunk, find a woman, and forget all this shit.”

He crossed to the fridge, the floor cold underfoot, and grabbed another beer, the cap hissing as he twisted it off. The first sip hit sharp, a cold jolt, and then…

A loud, hard knock rattled the door.

He frowned, setting the beer down with a clink on the counter. “Coming,” he called, louder than he meant. His fingers twisted the edge of the towel, tightening the knot. It rode low, and he tugged it up, ensuring it wouldn’t slip as he padded to the door.

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