Page 118 of The Revenge Game
“I don’t really. But I thought you might like to.”
“Sure. That could be fun, dancing with you.”
I take another sip of my mulled wine, trying to calm my swirl of emotions.
It’s okay. It’s going to be all okay.
Justin is unbelievably gorgeous. He’s now officially out.
He’s found his gay sea legs with me, and now he’ll be able to happily go off and start hooking up with other guys. He’ll be able to enjoy meeting other guys, knowing he’s got some experience under his belt. Like training wheels for his new gay life, except the training wheels are me, and I’m about to become obsolete.
That’s what needs to happen.
A few hours later, we’re at Heaven, which seems like a deeply ironic name for a place that feels distinctly purgatorial. The nightclub sprawls across multiple levels under Charing Cross station, the bass vibrating through the Victorian railway arches like the whole place has a heartbeat.
My fingers clench around my gin and tonic as I watch a guy who looks like he moonlights as a Calvin Klein model lean in close to Justin at the bar. Even from here, I can see how the stranger’s biceps strain against his tight black T-shirt as he gestures animatedly.
Justin throws his head back, laughing at something the guy says, and the sight causes a hollowness that starts in my chest and spreads until even my fingertips feel empty.
This is exactly what I wanted. I wanted Justin to be comfortable enough with his sexuality to attract attention from guys like this. To realize he has options beyond the helpful IT guy who lives down the hall. I was just the practice run, the beta test before the real thing.
I force myself to look away, focusing instead on the dance floor where the crowd moves like a single organism under the strobing lights. The music pounds through my chest, but it can’t quite drown out the voice in my head, reminding me that guys who build relationships on lies don’t get to keep the fairytale.
“You look like you’re thinking too hard for a Saturday night,” a voice breaks through my spiral of self-recrimination.
I turn to find a guy with kind eyes and an arsenal of freckles smiling at me. He’s wearing a T-shirt withSudo, Make Me a Sandwichprinted across it, and something in my expression must show recognition because his grin widens.
“Finally, someone who gets the joke! I’m Nathan.”
“I’m Drew,” I manage. “And I should probably warn you that joke’s considered a bit problematic in certain Linux circles.”
Nathan launches into a passionate defense of Unix humor, and I find myself drawn into the familiar territory of tech banter. It’s easier than watching Justin with Mr. Perfect Arms, easier than acknowledging the ache in my chest feels suspiciously similar to heartbreak.
“Mind if I interrupt?” A voice cuts through our conversation. I turn to find Justin standing there, his expression thunderous. The Calvin Klein model is nowhere in sight.
“Sure, we were just discussing Linux humor,” Nathan says.
“Sounds interesting,” Justin says politely. Then he turns to me, his eyes fixing on me with an intensity that makes my pulse spike. “Can we talk? Somewhere quieter?”
“Sure,” I say.
Justin stalks across the club, leading me to a relatively peaceful corner near the emergency exit, where the music is muffled enough that we don’t have to shout.
The red exit sign casts strange shadows across Justin’s face, making him look both familiar and foreign, along with impossibly handsome.
“What are you doing?” he demands.
“Making new friends?” My attempt at a casual shrug probably looks more like a muscle spasm. “Isn’t that what we’re here for?”
“Do you want to hook up with someone else? Is that why you wanted to come here?” The hurt on his face is painful, cutting deep inside me.
“No…this isn’t for me. I… I just wanted you to see that you have options,” I stammer.
He steps closer, shoulders squared like he’s about to give the most important sales pitch of his life. But there’s nothing rehearsed in the way his hands clench.
“What part of this don’t you understand? I don’t want any other guy, Drew. I want you.” He fixes me with a hard stare. “Why won’t you believe me on this?”
My breathing is coming hard and fast.
