Page 3 of Pages of My Heart
He holds out his hand and Thomas shakes it. The grasp is firm at first, then Charlie loosens his grip and keeps hold of Thomas’s hand much longer than is customary. Thomas’s stomach flip-flops oddly at the lingering touch, at the way this Charlie is smirking at him, amusement dancing in his eyes. Sure, Thomas knows the other man is laughing at his lack of worldly experience, but he tries not to care.
“I’m Thomas O’Reilly, and I’m eighteen. You can’t be much older than that yourself.”
“I’m twenty, but I’ve been here a few times before. I’m not wet behind the ears like you.” Charlie gives his hand a playful squeeze before finally letting go. “A daddy is a lover a young man takes when he wants to be showered with affection. And gifts. That what you looking for, Red? A daddy?”
“Is that whatyoucome here for?” Thomas must know. He holds his breath, waiting for the answer.
“Hell no!” Charlie swivels on his bar stool to face Thomas square on, one of his knees knocking Thomas’s own on the way. “I kinda got a soft spot for redheads,” he says, eyes flitting up to the top of his head.
Thomas inhales sharply. Flustered, he doesn’t know whether to look at Charlie’s mouth or his eyes or . . . Thomas wills himself not to let his gaze drop lower.
A smile spreads across Charlie’s face. “You’re fuckin’ sweet, Thomas O’Reilly.”
“How are you so . . . so . . . okay with”—Thomas motions to the room—“all this?”
“You’re a fairy, ain’t you, Red? You like men?”
“I think so. I—” he sighs. “This is really embarrassing. I’ve never . . .doneanything with a man before, but I think I . . . I want to.” Thomas’s face flushes hot, his back uncomfortably damp with sweat.
Charlie nods. “Truth is, I ain’t okay with it,” he says. “But every now and again, I gotta indulge myself. You know, scratch the itch. Got myself a girl and all, but when I’m here, I like to forget about all that and just enjoy myself.”
Thomas’s stomach sinks, the heavy weight of disappointment settling in. Charlie’s got a girl. He doesn’t know what to say, so he picks up his glass and finishes his beer. A newsong starts up, “The Man I Love,” and he looks across the room at the singer. It’s one of his favorites.
“You wanna dance, Red?” Charlie stands and offers out his hand once again, palm up this time.
Thomas hesitates only for a second, then takes it and allows Charlie to lead him onto the dance floor.
Thomas is tall—much taller than most men, standing an impressive six feet. Now that they’re no longer sitting he notes that Charlie is a good head shorter than him, and he finds he likes that very much when he takes Charlie into his arms and they begin to sway to the music. His body is still too hot, and he tries in vain to calm his pounding heart. At first, Charlie’s hands are high around his waist, then one slips low, settling into the curve of his ass. Thomas tries to suppress a shudder. Never in all his days did he think he would ever slow dance with another man. It feels dangerously wrong and dangerously right all at once.
After a few minutes, Thomas finally begins to relax and enjoy himself, and with a surge of courage, he pulls Charlie to his chest. The blue-eyed beauty comes willingly, and there is an instant response, heat pooling low in Thomas’s gut, arousal blooming. Frightened at the prospect of Charlie feeling his growing hardness, he pulls away.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks, trying to hide his fluster. It means he won’t have enough change to ride the train home, but he doesn’t want to say goodbye just yet.
Charlie studies him, head cocked to one side, eyebrows raised high. Charlie might have the most expressive face Thomas has ever seen.
“You wanna get outta here instead? Go for a walk down by the docks?”
Thomas’s heart gives an almost painful kick. “It’s pretty late . . .” he hedges.
“I’ll protect you, Red. Besides, it’s real secluded down there at night.”
Thomas considers it only briefly before he’s agreeing. “All right, then.”
It’s well past midnight when they make it to the docks, but Charlie was right—there isn’t a soul in sight. They sit down at the water’s edge, legs swinging over the lapping waves. Charlie offers him a Lucky Strike, which he takes and brings to his lips. Charlie lights it for him, his hand coming up to protect the flame from the breeze. Their fingers brush, sending goosebumps up Thomas’s arm, but he cannot bring himself to lift his eyes. When Charlie lights a second cigarette for himself a moment later, his face is briefly illuminated by the flame, and Thomas marvels at its contradictions. There is the prettiness of his ice-blue eyes, flickering from gentle to cocky and back again. The ruggedness of his wide-set jaw offset by his slim, delicate nose and lips so plump and perfectly shaped that Thomas cannot take his eyes off them.
He dares to shuffle a little closer, settling near enough that he can feel Charlie’s body heat as they smoke in silence. Thomas chances a few glances out of the corner of his eye, his heart thumping so loud he fears Charlie must hear it too.
“You gonna tell me your last name, Charlie?” he finally blurts out.
“It’s Miller.” Charlie flicks his cigarette into the water, then relaxes, leaning back onto his hands, eyes coming to rest on Thomas’s face. “O’Reilly, right? You Irish?”
“My paternal grandparents came from Ireland. Only my sister Maggie and I have the red hair, though.”
“How many brothers and sisters you got?”
“Bridget is the eldest. She married Eddie a few years back, and they have a little boy named James. He’s three. Then there’s my brother, Michael, who’s a year older than me, and my sister, Maggie, who’s only fourteen.” Thomas takes a final drag from his smoke and tries to let go of his lingering nerves on the exhale. “What about you?”
“Got a sister, Evie. She’s eighteen, same as you, and a brother Donnie, two years older than me.”
