Better Than Friends (8 page)

“This is a quaint café. This sort of place is harder to come by these days,” he observed as he sat in the rattan chair across from me.

“I know. I think that’s why I like it. There’s no artifice. I like things simple and real.” I took a sip of my beverage and immediately regretted it. Damn, that was hot. I reached for a napkin and dabbed at my lips. Ouch.

I looked over at Paul when I heard a low chuckle. His eyes were lit with amusement.

“I suppose I should warn you it may be a touch warm?”

I grinned sheepishly. I wanted to make a smart-ass comment but I didn’t know the guy. There was no sense in scaring him off by unleashing the real me just yet. It was time to break out the ol’ “get to know someone new” social skills. It wasn’t hard to slip into that mode; however, I hadn’t done it in a “dating” sense in quite a while. I was bound to be a little rusty.

“So, you work with Aaron?”

“Not actually. My firm does marketing and handles some advertisements for his magazine. I met him a couple of years ago when one of the photography sessions we were doing blew up due to an overzealous assistant. That person was let go and Aaron was assigned the job. He was brilliant. Not to mention lovely.”

His eyes sparkled in an almost flirty manner. I might have made a comment regarding his practical salivation over my friend but for two minor details. First, he was right. Aaron was very sexy. And second, I couldn’t get over Paul’s voice. The way he said the word
advertisements
with the accent on the second syllable rather than the third like Americans do made me practically swoon in my chair.

“What about you? Aaron mentioned you’re a lawyer.”

We spent a good hour chatting in a “get to know you” conversational way. We talked about working in the capitol, places of interest nearby, and restaurants we liked. It was a little like my exchange with the couple I had given “DC in a day” tips to while I waited for them to leave the table. Friendly but surface only.

I did learn that Paul was from Kent originally but had lived in London for years before coming to the States three years ago. He was thirty-three, had a great job, and was a seemingly well-adjusted out gay man. Did I mention he was hot too? But I caught myself continually thinking of Jack. Who was he meeting at the gym? A lover? A friend?

Thankfully, Paul didn’t seem cognizant of any lapse in my attention. When our drinks were finished and we noticed people hovering for our prized table much the same way I’d done, we stood and made our way outside. Standing face-to-face, I realized we were roughly the same height. Paul’s graceful carriage made him appear taller than he actually was. I adjusted my own lazy posture and stuck my hand out for him to shake. He did so with a smile and asked if I’d like to have dinner next week.

I
T
WAS
weird to suddenly find my social calendar booked with actual “dates.” I couldn’t remember the last time I was going to meet two different men on the same weekend. The same month maybe, but not the same weekend.

I acknowledged, to myself anyway, that my date with Paul was keeping me from overthinking the Nationals game the following day with Jack. It served as a somewhat strategic diversion. My tendency was to obsess, but between work and now a night out with a handsome British guy, I wouldn’t have a chance to freak out about Jack.

Or Cary. Other than our weekly calls to check in, I found I wasn’t obsessing over what was happening on the West Coast. I couldn’t do anything to help directly, but every conversation with my brother tended to end awkwardly. I wasn’t sure what I could do on my end to change that.

P
AUL
AND
I arranged to meet at a trendy new restaurant where a world-renowned French chef was master of the kitchen. Georges’ was packed. I could barely get in through the front door and was wondering if I’d ever find Paul in the sea of people as I made my way to the bar. I squeezed into a corner near the back of the counter and ordered a beer. I wanted something stronger but decided it was wise to keep my wits about me.

Paul walked in just as a bottle was placed at my elbow. I waved him over and tried to signal that I wanted to get his order. He didn’t seem to understand my gesturing, if I read the puzzled look on his face correctly.

“Hello!” he yelled above the din. “Our table is ready. Bring your drink along, all right?”

Oh. Awkward. I was afraid I’d have to carry the bottle of beer through the posh crystal-laden restaurant, when a waiter discreetly picked up my drink and whisked it away on a tray. I smiled wanly and followed my date back to the front where a handsome young man with perfect posture directed us to follow him. The restaurant’s interior was exquisite. It was an old-world-meets-new-world design of crystal chandeliers juxtaposed with rough-hewn wood plank flooring.

We were shown to a small semiprivate table for two. It was obviously a prime seat, and I was suitably impressed. When we were left with menus and a drink list, I finally took a good look at my date. Paul was a good-looking man. He looked refined and elegant in a navy blazer that brought out the blue in his eyes. I’d noted as we made our way to our seats that he was wearing khakis too and silently congratulated myself for choosing correctly.

“This is a nice place.” Yikes… smooth observation. I was definitely out of practice.

“It’s a new favorite of mine. I’ve been a time or two for lunch. Do you mind if I order a bottle of wine for us to share or would you prefer to stick with beer?”

“Um, no. I mean, I don’t mind at all.” I could feel my cheeks redden. I hated feeling so uncomfortable. No wonder I hadn’t been on a date in forever. I was usually a confident guy who could easily converse with almost anyone. I hoped my skills would resurface. I didn’t want this night to be a disaster.

Thankfully, Paul proved to be pleasant company. We talked about work and eventually got around to sharing “get to know you” information… family, friends, schools, etcetera. I know I was my usual obtuse self when it was my turn to share background stories about my family in particular, but he didn’t push. I was grateful on one hand but I had a sudden flash of memory about how effortlessly Jack read me based on the tiniest piece of personal information. I had found his power of perception to be unnerving but somehow refreshing.

“Curt?”

“Oh sorry! I spaced. What did you say?”
Damn that Jack!

Paul offered me a wry grin. He didn’t seem bothered by my lack of focus, but I was. It wasn’t like me. And when I considered how often I dined with handsome men with sexy British accents, I was almost concerned. I should have been hanging on his every word.

“Would you like to grab a quick after-dinner drink? I know a nice spot a short walk from here. Sometimes there’s live music. Jazz mostly.”

I studied my elegant dining partner before answering and smiled in agreement. Why not? Paul deftly accepted the bill and handed the waiter his card before I could do more than sputter my protest.

“No, no. Now you’ll have to come with me for a drink.” He winked and dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. The gesture was a little fussy, but he had me at the wink.

We made our way up 17
th
Street and continued a friendly banter about music. Paul was a big jazz music fan. I liked it for sure, but I was really a novice about the genre. It was entertaining to see him get worked up about a subject he was passionate about, though. And as shallow as it may have been, the sound of his voice alone was a total turn-on. I could have listened to him talk all night and never heard a word he said. He nudged my arm as we neared the corner of R Street, indicating we were turning. I followed his lead and took a quick look around me.

The avenue was crowded. Saturday night in the heart of all that was fabulous in DC was always one of my favorite things. Beautiful gay men of all ages, shapes, and sizes were out for a night on the town. Twinks, bears, or regular guys like me…. There was something for everyone. A man dressed in leather from head to toe stepped in front of my path, causing me to shorten my stride. I couldn’t help but notice his ensemble. Frankly, all that leather seemed a bit uncomfortable. He didn’t seem to mind and he did look hot, I mused. I listened to Paul with half an ear as he chatted about Miles Davis and John Coltrane, but I kept my eye on the guy walking in front of me. He stopped abruptly, and I ended up bumping into his shoulder hard. He turned and apologized quickly before disappearing into a hip but dark-looking bar. I read the subtle sign above the window and stopped dead in my tracks. Jack’s.

My pulse raced at just the sight of his name in lights. I had a sudden urge to go inside.

I’d been there before. True. But now that I’d met Jack, I was intrigued all over again. Maybe to see if I would view it differently now that I’d met the proprietor. But that was stupid. Nothing had changed. In fact, I was dressed in khakis again… just as I’d been on my one and only prior visit. I didn’t belong there.

My companion realized he’d lost me. Paul had walked on a few steps without me but turned back to my side and gave me a quizzical look.

“Are you into leather, then?” His tone was teasing as though leather was the last thing he pictured me in. He was right of course, but for some reason his observation bugged me. I shrugged and laughed, giving him a pointed “as if” look for good measure. Paul grinned good-naturedly as we continued our walk to the jazz bar.

The rest of the night was nice. It wasn’t special or extraordinary, but it was pleasant. Paul seemed like a good guy, and I’d enjoyed my night away from the bland routine I’d fallen into. After a couple of drinks, we made our way back up the crowded streets toward the restaurant where we’d both left our cars.

I drank in the sights of the circle, buzzing with bright energy and plenty of visual distractions, while Paul waxed poetic about jazz fusion. I had stopped trying to pay close attention to his words, opting to listen to the gentle cadence of his gorgeous accent. It served as a soothing melodic background noise to some of the more jarring visuals on the street. Like Jack’s. There it was again. This time I couldn’t ignore the almost-magnetic pull I felt at simply seeing his name.

“Did you valet your car?” Paul inquired as we approached Georges’.

“Um, no. I found a spot on the street,” I lied. Of course I had valet parked. There were never open parking spots on the street, but I was suddenly anxious and found I didn’t want to linger.

“Amazing.” Paul smiled wanly as he pulled a ticket from his pocket and handed it to the young man at the valet kiosk.

We stared at each other for an uncomfortable moment, neither of us sure about what came next. Did we shake hands or hug? I wasn’t sure what the proper etiquette was, which may have been the product of too many years between dates and not being completely blown away by our evening together. I didn’t feel a burning desire to kiss him or physically connect with him. Not yet.

When I couldn’t take the awkward pause any longer, I held my hand out.

“Thank you, Paul. Thanks for dinner. This was nice.”

Paul looked at my outstretched hand and gave a half-laugh. He ignored my hand and slipped his arms around mine for a brief hug. I’ve never been big on public displays unless alcohol somehow played a part, like the night I’d made out with Jack in the middle of Dupont Circle, for instance. My back was stiff, no doubt giving the impression I was less than interested. That wasn’t exactly true, but…. Paul smiled sweetly, seemingly unperturbed by my lack of response. He gave my arms a friendly squeeze and stepped aside when a black Audi pulled up.

“I’ll be in touch.”

I thoughtfully watched his taillights disappear.

What the hell?

I retraced my steps back up 17th Street toward Jack’s. I concentrated on the scenery and made an effort to stay in the moment.

There was a short line outside the entrance, which almost had me turning tail. No way was I going to stand in a line with a bunch of leather daddies while I was dressed in khakis. My buzz had practically worn off, and I didn’t think it had ever been strong enough to allow me to look like quite that big of an idiot either way. I hesitated before stepping into the line just as the bouncer granted entrance to a large party. I stood alone on the sidewalk for a second longer, mustering the courage to finally walk toward the door.

Jack’s was larger than I remembered and darker. Dark wainscot paneling like you’d expect to find in a library covered the far walls, while the circular bar front was covered in tufted leather. Antiqued mirrors provided a nod to old-world finery that came across as very contemporary juxtaposed with the generous use of leather everywhere else. Even the overhead pendant lights looked like they were hung by thick leather straps. It was a very masculine space with a modern vibe. It was obviously very popular too. The place was packed.

Most of the patrons were in their late twenties like me or well into their thirties. And while quite a few were clad in the ubiquitous leather, many were dressed in jeans too. What seemed to be the biggest common denominator were muscles. Seriously. I was a khaki-wearing, under-muscled wannabe who’d wandered into a hotbed of hunky gay men. I made myself keep walking toward the bar. I was there. No sense chickening out now.

I noticed the bar wasn’t a perfect circle as I got closer. It was squared off at the shorter sides closer to the walls and a few nearby high tables. I decided my best bet was to sit in the darker corner to stay under the radar and do a little quiet people-watching. I was there to observe. At least that was what I told myself. The truth was that I had no fucking idea what I was doing.

Miraculously, I found an unoccupied stool and ordered a gin and tonic from a good-looking bartender wearing an extra-snug black T-shirt and tight leather pants. Both of his heavily muscled arms were covered in colored ink. I looked away quickly, not wanting to get caught gawking, but my eyes were drawn to the vibrant color and design. That must have been done over a few years. Wasn’t that shit supposed to hurt?