Chapter 7

Seven

Josh

June 27, 2019

" Y ou good, brother?"

Something slaps my back, and I look up from my drink.

Daniel . I give him a drunk grin.

"Damn, Josh Miller. Lost in the sauce again."

I try to roll my eyes at Daniel, but that makes me dizzy. I laugh at myself.

"Like you're not," I say.

He takes his ball cap off and puts it on backward, flashing me a big grin as the cap presses blond hair down into his eyes. He leans in, so close I can smell the liquor on his breath. "I got a real ID, Mills. I'm not gettin' drunk off Jack and Cokes on a fuckin' Thursday."

I shake my head. I'm too drunk to tell him to go fuck himself. Something pings in my head, like this little distress signal. But the liquor in my system blots it out.

I feel happy. Sitting on a barstool in the fucking Hardwood House, up in Atlanta. I laugh at the name now, and Daniel leans back over, slings an arm over my shoulder. I can feel the warmth of his chest on my back. It makes my dick twitch even through the veil of being fucking drunk.

"I'm gonna hug up on ya," he murmurs. "That way we'll catch someone's eye. Then you can both get us some bussy."

"What?" I laugh.

"Oh c'mon. You never heard it called that?" He leans down, so we're at eye level. "You're a virgin, aren't you?"

I look down and draw myself away from him. I shake my head.

"Well, shit. It didn't go well?" He's loud—talking over the music.

I put my finger over my lips and shake my head.

"That's right. Miller's a shy boy," he says.

"No I'm not. You're just loud as fuck."

He mimes a lasso, swinging his hips to the country music they've got blaring right now.

I put my head in my hand, shaking it. Jenna met this dude when she did orientation back in April. He was her group leader. He had on rainbow shoes, so she got his number for me. Like all gays should automatically be friends.

When I moved into my new apartment about a week and a half ago, Jenna pushed me to text the guy. So I did. He was at my place in like two hours, helping me unpack my boxes. He came by with sub sandwiches, plus two of his also-gay friends. Within two days, I was coming out to everybody who seemed safe. Pretty fucking crazy.

A few days back, Daniel saw my Snapchat—I guess he got it from Jenna the Betrayer—and he weaseled me into running the social media for the LGBTQ+ student group. So now I'm doing two Snapchats, and also two Instagrams.

Daniel gets out on the dance floor, and I look down at my phone. Maybe I'll snap the olives at the bottom of my martini. Jack and Cokes my ass. Motherfucker’s definitely drunk if he mistook this martini for a Jack and Coke.

I snap the olives, throw a filter on, and then hold two fingers up at the bartender, letting him know I want more when he can. Daniel and Finn, his—our—friend, can dance all night if they want. I'm not made for dancing.

I'm made for the bar stools.

I'm smiling to myself when a low voice says, "Hello there."

It sounds like a radio announcer, so at first I'm confused.

I look up, frowning, at... whoa —this hot, hot guy. He's on the bar stool by mine.

"I saw you," he says in a soft and low voice, holding a phone up. "On Snapchat." He arches a brow.

I'm too confused to do anything but frown. Which makes him laugh. He has a nice laugh—soft and husky.

"You're pretty cute, JMills555. Does the 555 mean what I think it does?"

"What's that?" I manage, as the bartender swaps my empty for a new martini.

"It means you want to be anonymous." He smiles, making his eyes crinkle. "Everybody knows 555 is the fake TV area code."

"How did you find me on there?" I ask, trying not to check him out. He's fucking gorgeous. He's as beautiful as Ezra, but with different features.

My stomach pitches from the mere sound of that name in my brain. I fix my gaze on the guy beside me, my eyes ping-ponging from the blingy diamond necklace just above the neckline of his meshy Nike shirt to his Hollywood face. He's got a California look, with high, full cheekbones, thick-lashed hazel eyes, dark brows, and thick lips. His hair is buzzed short on the sides and long and gold blond up top.

"You checkin' me out, JMills?" He gives me a wolfish grin and tilts his head back, waving a hand at his thicc, delicious throat. I notice his nails are black as he runs a finger over his Adam's apple. "People like this," he says. There's a wicked glint in his eye.

"Who are you?" I blurt.

He gives me a high-gloss smile, tilting his head to the side like he's posing for the camera. "Who do you think?"

God, his voice is so seductive. Like...the perfect timbre. Except Ezra's.

I falter at my thought, and he gives me another coy smile. "Why don't we go talk in the back? I know a little darkroom."

The look he gives me has my heart stuffed up into my throat.

He gets off his barstool, glancing back, and I follow like he's holding an imaginary leash. Fuck, his back and shoulders are ripped . I can see the ridges of muscle beneath his black shirt as he moves. His jeans hang on his hips. And what an ass.That body’s made for fucking. Shit, this guy is a walking fantasy.

He leads me into a door and down a dimly lit hall to a closet. In the closet, there's a leather couch.

I sit on it, feeling too drunk to stand. My blood roars in my ears.

He comes between my legs, running his fingers through my hair as his eyelids go heavy.

"Such a pretty boy," he murmurs. His hand trails over my shoulder and down my arm, squeezing my triceps lightly. “What sport?” he asks.

I frown up at him as my heart pounds. “What do you mean what sport?”

He crouches down in front of me, his necklace glinting in the dim light of a lamp as his hand caresses my thigh through my shorts. "I can tell from your calves. You're either in the gym twice a day, or you're doing sports." He runs a hand over his own calf, which looks as thick as mine does. "These babies are from the gym," he says as his hand caresses my quads. "But I bet you're a real athlete. Am I right?"

His hand moves to the inside of my leg. Then he reaches inside my pants, his fingertips tickling my skin. I groan, spreading my legs.

"Oh so she's got hot from drinking." His smile up at me is pure sin. "That's because you're young, sweetie. I bet you're not even twenty-one yet."

I lean against the couch's back, breathing harder from the way his hand is moving, slowly, toward my hardening cock.

"Tell me," he says, stroking back down over my knee.

I rasp, "Soccer," and he smiles, looking a little smug and so fuck hot. "That's what I thought. An Alabama athlete. Freckles," he says, leaning down to kiss upward from my knee. "All-American," he breathes on my skin. "Athletic and down to earth, but still a pretty, pretty boy. Such soft skin. I bet you'd kill in drag."

He's sucking on the back inside of my knee, making chills pop out all over my arms. He kisses up my thigh, pushing my shorts leg up. Then his hand goes into my shorts, reaching till his fingers find the base of my dick.

"Fuck. You feel good." It's a rough whisper. His fingers close around me, dragging upward, as he leans in closer and his other hand unbuttons my pants.

"One handed," I manage.

"Oh yes." He gets me out with practiced care, pumping my shaft even as he's taking my cock out of my underwear.

His eyes come to mine, and he smiles. He rises up a little in his crouch, and then his hot mouth's taking me in. He's sucking on me, swallowing me down. I'm shuddering because his mouth is soft and hot. His hand comes under my balls, cupping, stroking my sac lightly, as he blows me fast...and—

I'm groaning.

"Ahh fuck," I whimper.

He sucks me like a lollipop and pulls me out of his mouth. "I'm gonna make you come, freckles. When I get going, you won't have a choice, so this is your time to tell me if you're underage or I should use a condom." He toys with my cockhead, stroking it so I'm moaning as he looks up into my eyes.

"I'm...tested," I manage.

"I got tested two days ago," he says, tracing a fingertip over the slit in my head. "Don't do this again, though. Always bring a flavored condom and make the guy put it on you. Okay, babe?"

I nod, and he lets go of me. "Here, I'll show you. Lemme show you how it feels if it's a thin one. I can get you there, and you'll be protected. When you've got a dick like this," he murmurs in his husky low voice, "you gotta keep it safe."

He rips a condom open and he's rolling it over my cockhead.

"See how thin it is?" The thing is white. "I still see your sexy veins." He gives me a lick. "You can't feel it as good, but it's pretty thin, right?"

"Yeah." Another whimper.

"Lemme tell you about being at a bar, in a backroom, freckles. When you're young like you, you got an ass like that and you're on your fifth drink, you gotta stay safe from the old guys, the fucking voyeurs and the perverts and the freaks that could hurt you." He leans down and gives me a warm suck. "Nobody's gonna watch your sweet ass except you. Okay?"

I nod, and he sucks me in, blowing me with such skill that my fucking toes curl despite the condom squeezing me.

"This tastes like marshmallow," he whispers. "And the size?" He smirks. "It's XL."

I don't want to seem too over-eager, but I can't help the way my hips are moving. It's a struggle not to shove myself down his throat.

He keeps pulling off me, teasing me, saying things like, "Oh, babe. You're so fucking close. You wanna get off?"

It's so good. I'm hugging his torso with my legs. My hand hovers over his hair, brushing the well-manicured waves softly.

He pulls off my cock again and smiles for me. It's the smile from before: all sex. "You can grab it and pull."

"What about you?" The words tremble from my watering mouth.

He gives me a small smirk. Then he's sucking me again. My fingers thread into his soft hair, tugging lightly. It's so good that I can't choke out, "Stop," until I'm so damn close, my balls are drawn up and I feel pre-cum pooling in the tip of the condom.

His head comes up, his eyes just the slightest bit wide. I feel his hand on my hip, realize he moved it from under my balls. Looking at his face—despite how polished to perfection he is, I realize his eyes are kind—makes my throat cinch up.

"You not good?"he asks quietly.

A tear escapes down my cheek, and I wrap a hand over my dick. "It feels amazing," I rasp.

"Nervous?"

I shut my eyes and shake my head.

"Too drunk. No." His voice is soft. "Somebody else?"

I nod, and his hand finds mine.

"You're close. Just a few strokes and you're there, babe. I'll get up," he says, doing just that, "and pull my tank off for a towel."

He turns away from me and pulls his polyester Nike jersey off first. Then he pulls the tank top off, revealing a tanned, muscular back. He puts the jersey back on, and I squeeze my eyes shut, imagining Ezra's mouth on my neck as I blow into my own hand.