Total pages in book: 169
Estimated words: 156210 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 781(@200wpm)___ 625(@250wpm)___ 521(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 156210 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 781(@200wpm)___ 625(@250wpm)___ 521(@300wpm)
I don’t know what the conclusion is supposed to be, so I just stare at him. “That has literally no application to my situation.”
Kurt shrugs. “Just sayin’. Don’t judge a book by its cover.”
Like he’s ever read a book in his life.
I get on with the mopping, because I need to do something with the pent-up energy after such an agitating conversation. He doesn’t get that not everyone is a serial monogamist. I don’t want a relationship. I don’t want to engage in any mushy feelings, buy Valentine’s cards, or plan a future with some other guy while we both look at the stars. A dirty quickie in the back of a car has always been good enough for me.
“My relationship status isn’t all that interesting and this county isn’t exactly a bustling metropolis filled with eligible gay bachelors.”
Kurt groans, leaning against the counter. “But I’m invested in my gay best friend!” We’re work colleagues at best, but whatever. “You could be one half of the kind of adorable gay couple who get a dog together and make him little outfits. You could even have him be the ringbearer at your wedding. I could be your best man. I bet you’d make bank as an Instagram couple.”
He doesn’t specify how that would come about. I’m pretty sure he hasn't given much thought to the future he imagines for me, but I do kinda like Kurt, so I don’t want to grill him about it. “I’m twenty-one. I’m not getting gay married just so you can say you were a best man at a gay wedding.”
“That’s homophobic, Luke. You get ‘married’, not ‘gay married’.”
I’m about to school him that I’m gay and therefore I can call it whatever I want, but I end up letting it go. It’s too cute that he’s such a big dopey ally.
Straight guys have it so easy. There’s an endless supply of amazing women, and all they have to do is be a half-decent human being to attract one.
Then again… maybe that’s my problem with guys? Maybe I’m not a half-decent human being. A quarter at best. But I don’t want to date anyway so it doesn’t matter. You don’t have to be nice to get laid.
I mop the ugly tiles with more vigor as I ponder whether I’m the problem.
Kurt eyes me suspiciously. “Is it ‘cause you want your guy to be goth, rocker, or whatever? You have to look beyond the superficial.”
Do I? Do I ‘have to’? I don’t have to do shit. I need to pay my mother rent and afford my own groceries. Beyond that, I’m not obligated to anything, especially not dating. I was done being compliant when they kicked me out of boarding school in spectacular fashion.
I keep my thoughts to myself when Marty passes across the room, leaving dark footprints on the floor I’ve just cleaned.
“I’ll be back in an hour or so. Don’t burn the place down!” he says in a cheerful voice.
I give him the smile he wanted to see so badly, but as soon as he’s out, I take off my cap to scratch my head. My hair used to be all green, but it’s grown out a lot since the last time I had spare cash to dye it, so now it’s dark brown on top, fading into green at the ends. Shorter at the front and with lots of layers, it is a shaggy mess that barely reaches my shoulders.
I hoped the earlier topic was forgotten, but the moment Marty leaves, Kurt is right back at it. “You should let me set you up. I know this one guy. He’s a drummer in a band, and you know what they say about drummers…” Kurt wiggles his eyebrows.
“What do they say…?” I pretend not to know, just to mess with him.
He groans in exasperation. “That they’re good with rhythm, so— Never mind! Want a blind date or not? I’ll make sure he wears black.”
My heartbeat picks up in panic. “What? No!”
Kurt stops typing on his phone and sighs. “You’re hopeless. The Prince of Darkness himself could walk through the door right now and you’d give him the cold shoulder ‘cause his horns are uneven.”
Both of us turn our heads when the bell at the door rings and… speaking of the devil.
I can’t help myself. I stare.
The man who steps into the restaurant drags the darkness in with him. He’s well over six feet tall, clad from head to toe in black leather, with buckled boots reaching to his knees, and long hair falling down his chest in dark gray waves worthy of a hair conditioner ad. The width of his shoulders is amplified by pauldrons of black-tinted metal, and he’s wearing a vest of hard leather adorned with a dark green crest with some kind of mer-horse in a seashell. I’d call it a breastplate if that wasn’t ridiculous.