Colby here? I’m scanning the room, trying to stay as calm as possible. The job itself should help me. It’s all about walking up to men, silently offering the tray, and backing away just as silently once they’ve taken a drink or refused it. I should be able to get a look at everybody that way.
It’s just that I can’t stop remembering the way he kissed me. The way it felt to lean against him, how it felt safe and dangerous at the same time. Not like a game, not like that lame glass floor from earlier, where there was the appearance of danger just to provoke you. No, this was real danger, the danger of being seen, being understood, or worse, the illusion of those two things, because you’ve read too much into the sorrowful gaze of a man who seems deep to you, but that second meeting proved he wasn’t into me at all.
It had been dangerous to go to the back room with him, and yet, with my face against his throat, I had felt so safe.
But he’s not here.
I’m thankful and disappointed at the same time. It’s just, the disappointment threatens to choke me, even though it’s a foolish feeling. It’s good that he’s not here. He’s not what I’m here for. This is a job, and I need to make money. I don’t need to get into awkward situations with a man I’m somehow attracted to, but a man I definitely could never have.
Yet I feel it nonetheless, this sense of loss, like I’ve made a tremendous mistake and now some chance is gone.
Maybe I shouldn’t have spent a couple weeks avoiding the club.
Maybe I should’ve come night after night, hoping he’d be back.
But I couldn’t do that. What he made me feel was too scary.
I’m not good at this, not at all.
My tray is empty. Time to refill at the bar, let someone else come through and collect the half-drained glasses that no one wants anymore.
I’ll survive the night. It’ll be okay. Better than okay, at least now I was actually safe. Nobody would touch me tonight, nobody would give me a second look, and I could collect my money at the end of the night, count it into an envelope, slip it into the landlord’s slot, and another month would be taken care of.
When someone touches my elbow, I nearly jump out of my skin, but it’s okay, just someone wanting to give me their empty glass. Just part of the job. So I keep my face still, because you’re not supposed to wear an expression, just a blank stare, and I turn with my tray up so he can place his glass on it, whoever it is, this random person who is behind me.
Oh.
Yeah.
It’s him.
He starts to say something and I pull away from him before he gets me in trouble.
Doesn’t he know the rules?
The thing is, he’s smiling. He’s happy to have found me.
Like he’s been looking forward to it.
Like maybe he’d been here before, trying to find me. Like he didn’t have my fucking number on my fucking resume.
How can someone look happy and sad at the same time? I don’t know how he does it. He’s got that look like he’s mourning, but that I’ve somehow cut through the sorrow, but that’s dangerous. There’s no reason I should be the thing that brings a smile to his sad lips. No reason his dark eyes should begin to sparkle just because he sees me.
I can’t do games. I’m a waiter, and that’s all. If he wants something else, there are a hundred other guys all ready for him, over there. Hot guys who don’t need him for anything.
The blush is creeping back over me. I’m so helpless. Does he realize that? I feel like I’d be putty in his hands.
But I can’t be. Jimi would be furious. I’d be furious at myself.
So why is my entire body responding?
Why am I hard as a rock, instantly? So hard that it’s obvious, my cock pressed up against the cloth, making an unmistakable tent, to my dire humiliation?
I don’t know what I want. Maybe just to hide. It’s confusing, this mix of deranged hunger and fear, this simultaneous need to touch him and to run far away.
He sees what’s going on in me. He sees that I’m not eagerly pressing myself against him. He’s taking it as refusal, and he’s being noble, goddamn, why is he being noble? That sad look is back