Page 123 of Outcast
She smiled and slipped an arm around him, giving him a quick squeeze. “Happiness looks good on you, friend.”
“You too,” he said, his gaze darting to Matteo, who was standing a few feet away with Marty, his eyes flitting to Allison every few seconds, looking bemused.
By the event? By the fact he’d fallen in love with such an amazing person? Maybe all of the above.
I could relate.
My heart stuttered. I could relate all too well.
A man pushing a cart loaded with flowers came by. He paused when he saw our linked hands. “Free flowers for the sweethearts.”
He pulled a few different flowers out, making quick work of arranging a small, vibrant bouquet, and handed it to Emory.
“It’s beautiful,” Emory said, dipping his nose to smell it. “Thank you.”
The florist, who was rocking purple hair, shiny lip gloss, and an appraising gaze that said he was 100 percent gay, smiled at us. “Just stop by Rainbow Garden sometime. Enjoy!”
He carried on, a sashay to his hips.
Emory smacked my arm. “Don’t look too hard.”
I kissed his temple. “Don’t be silly, golden boy. You’re the only one who makes me hard.”
“Good, because that femboy over there is making the florist look bland by comparison.”
I glanced over, and sure enough, there was a slim, lithe guy in jean shorts that barely covered his ass cheeks, fishnet stockings, chunky sandals, and an off-the-shoulder tank top that reminded me of the eighties. He wore makeup, though it wasn’t overdone, and his hair was just long enough to flop into his eyes.
“Oh, that’s Sassy Solo!” Allison exclaimed. At my blank look, she added, “Sassy is a drag queen over at Glitter Balls. She has a Facebook page. Um…” Allison’s brow furrowed as she thought. Then she snapped her fingers. “Oh yeah, his name is Kevin, and he lives here.”
Glitter Balls was a drag club and one of the few places with a name that could give Granville a run for its money. I’d never been, but Bailey had mentioned going with some friends on an eighteen-plus night.
Kevin had himself some kind of daddy. A man in his forties, wearing a gray T-shirt, had one beefy arm over the pretty boy’s shoulder. As we watched, a group came up to them—at least two more gay couples, along with a couple of women in the mix. They started talking and gesturing wildly, laughing, nudging each other—and in the middle of it all, holding hands, touching their partners casually, obviously comfortable with their sexuality in the midst of their hometown crowd.
I glanced at Emory, seeing the longing in his eyes as he watched them. It was heartbreaking to watch the emotions play across his face, but at the same time, my stomach fluttered with hope.
Maybe if Emory could see what he wanted—could see it was real and attainable—he’d find a way to embrace it.
We spent hours browsing all the vendors, visiting the quaint little downtown shops, and eating more than we should at The Stag Pub.
Before we left, we strolled through the small art show that showcased various depictions of the goldenrod: in vases, growing in gardens, thriving in wild fields, and so on.
“Maybe you should do some art for the festival next year,” I said. “Looks fun.”
“Yeah,” Emory mused. “They have a lot of festivals and art shows here. Maybe I could even do some of that tattoo art.”
“Or you could just set up and do henna tattoos,” I suggested. “Get a taste of putting ink on a man instead of just tracing it with your tongue.”
He laughed, a blush coming into his cheeks. “Maybe I should.”
It was a beautiful day with a beautiful man, and as we called goodbye to his friends, climbed on my bike, and rode into the darkness, I couldn’t help but feel like possibility stretched out in front of us, as far-reaching as the highway we traveled.
All we had to do was keep going.
CHAPTERTWENTY-NINE
Emory
Gray slowed his motorcycle,pulling in to park alongside a whole row of Harleys, Kawasakis, and who knew what else in front of Ball Breakers.
