Page 7 of Studious
But I do—did?—love him. Can I fall out of love that fast?
Was it really love at all?
“Okay,” I say, my throat raw. “Well, I guess I’ll see you around.” I’m too stunned to say more than that. If I knew what I was feeling, I’d let him have it. I think I’m in shock.
“Yeah. See you.”
He hands the driver some crumpled-up bills and shuts the door. When the driver gets back in, he lowers the screen. “Do you still want to go to the restaurant, sir?”
I stare at my clenched fists. What do I want to do? I don’t want to eat by myself, and there’s no way I can show up to prom without a date. Everyone will know we broke up. I can’t face anyone from school right now. I’m feeling too exposed.
But I also have a limousine all to myself, a hotel room booked, and supplies in my pocket. I’m teeter-tottering between anger and tears, and anger wins. “Do you know any eighteen-and-over gay clubs?”
The driver smiles. “Yes. Perks of this job. I know where everything is.”
“Take me to the closest one.”
“Right away, sir.” He puts the limo in gear.
I’m going to turn tonight into the best night of my life. Brian’s going to regret dumping me, and I’m gonna live so large he can’t ignore me if he tries.
I sit in the back seat of a stretch limousine, dressed up like I’ve never been dressed up before, my heart torn out, with a single, dominant purpose developing.
The limo pulls up to a club called One. The driver lets me out, and I approach the front door. I show my ID to the huge mountain of a bouncer, and he lets me in after drawing a large black X on my hand.
No big deal. I don’t have to drink. I just want to lose my fucking virginity tonight to someone.Anyone.
I make my way through the dark room. While it’s early in the evening, music pulses, and men grind on the dance floor.
The place seems like it has lots of rooms, some upstairs, some in maybe an underground level, judging by another set of stairs. You could get lost in here.
Not sure what to do—and feeling more alone than I’ve ever felt in my life—I belly up to the smooth counter of the bar. The bartender, a heavily tattooed bear, eyes me up and down.
“What’ll it be, baby gay?”
“Just a Coke, please.” I’m not even going to try to order alcohol, and I’m going to be polite, because this isn’t my scene.
Not yet.It will be, I vow.
With a nozzle, he fills a highball glass, then plunks it down before me on top of a heavy paper coaster with a stylized “One” on it.
“How much?” I yell into his ear as he leans over.
“On the house.”
Well, okay. I leave him a tip anyway and take my drink, sipping deeply. It’s watered down, more seltzer than syrup, and there’s too much ice. Holding it at least makes me feel like I have something to do.
Turning away, I put an elbow on the bar and study the room as if I’ve been here before. Trying to be like Harrison Ford or James Bond, instantly cool in any situation. Casual, like this is just me, nothing noteworthy at all.
Except, you know, I’m fucking rocking this tux.
But truth? That’s all bravado. In reality, my insides are turning to mush while my dick’s at a semi what with all those hot guys gyrating a few feet away. I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve never been to a Pride parade. I’ve only seen this many gay men in one place in my dreams.
And I’m gonna take full advantage.
Even though I’m a mess. I’m shoving thoughts of Brian, who ripped my heart out, to the side. Brian who?
I’m pissed off, sad, and feeling reckless. I toss back the soda—some of it going down the wrong pipe, so I splutter a bit—and make my way onto the dance floor.
