We Were Here: A New Adult Romance Prequel to Geoducks Are for Lovers (Modern Love Stories Book 1) (43 page)

“Real Love” ~ Mary J. Blige

WARREN AND I
did not make out behind the dumpster during his break.

I wasn’t kidding when I told Maggie I wasn’t that kind of boy.

We did, however, sit outside on a bench and talk. Then he gave me his number and I gave him mine.

How old fashioned.

“Who’s Warren?” Selah asked, holding out a message scrawled on a Hello Kitty pad of paper.

I reached for the note and she held it behind her back.

“Not until you tell me who he is.”

“He’s a guy.”

“A guy who called here for you. He sounded eager. And cute.”

“How do you sound cute on the phone?”

“He admitted he didn’t know your last name. Fumbled over it, actually. Then told me he wasn’t a random creep.” Her expression softened and I could see her romantic side come out. “Someone you picked up in San Francisco?”

“No, he’s local.”

Her eyebrows rose toward her bangs. “It’s about time.”

“I’m not a virgin-hermit.”

She handed me the note. “No, but Olympia isn’t exactly a cornucopia of cute gay boys. Present company the exception, of course.”

“Of course.” I read Warren’s message and smiled.

“He is cute.” Selah grinned. “I can tell by your face.”

“He’s not bad. Now excuse me, I need to make a phone call.” In the kitchen I punched his number into the phone on the wall, then pulled the long cord with me into the pantry closet.

I literally was in the closet calling a cute guy.

The irony wasn’t lost on me.

He picked up on the third ring.

I would’ve hung up after the fourth.

We made plans to meet at the diner for dinner.

I wondered if we’d order one milkshake and two straws.

Probably not.

At the diner, we sat in a booth near the windows.

Warren wore jeans and a long sleeve rainbow tie-dyed T-shirt. Out of his ponytail, his hair barely brushed his shoulders. His foot bumped against mine a couple of times while we studied our menus.

He ordered pancakes for dinner. How rebellious.

I had a burger and fries. And a chocolate milkshake—with one straw.

After the waitress left us, an awkward silence fell over the table. I tried to think of something to say not completely cliché and trite.

“You’re an art major?” he asked.

“I am.”

“What kind?”

“3D.”

So far, I came across as interesting as the bowl of mini non-dairy creamers sitting on the table—bland, boring, and completely artificial.

The waitress returned with our orders. At least we’d have something to do with our hands and mouths now.

“What about you?” I asked.

“Studio art undergrad at RISD, now glass blowing.”

“Are you afraid of getting burned?”

“Getting burned is part of the process. You learn the hard way immediately when you work with hot stuff, burns are inevitable.”

“The same could be said about my dating life.”

“Mine too.” His laughter rumbled in his chest and I could feel it echo in my own.

“Could you teach me to blow glass?”

“You want access to my glory hole?” He sucked syrup off his fork

I choked on my milkshake.

“You okay?” His deep laugh filled the space while I sputtered and tried not to die on a mouthful of dairy.

I nodded, trying to replace chocolate milk with air.

“I’m not being rude. That’s what it’s called. For real. We have three furnaces and the middle one is the glory hole.”

Finally able to breathe again, I looked around, wondering who else heard him say glory hole repeatedly. Two young guys with long hair and funky clothes were already out of the norm for this town. I didn’t want to end up getting thrown out and called faggots.

“No one heard me.”

“What?”

“No one is paying attention to us. You looked worried we’re going to be jumped as soon as we walk out the door.”

I rolled my shoulders back and pushed the sleeves of my black shirt up to my elbows. “I wasn’t worried.”

He toyed with the piercing in his eyebrow. I hadn’t noticed it before. “Two men talking about glory holes might not be typical, even for here.”

“Can you stop saying glory hole?” I stabbed a fry into the tartar sauce I’d ordered on the side.

He chuckled. “Only if you agree to come to the studio and let me show you mine.”

I swore my cheeks heated. “Okay. Deal.”

“Let’s talk about things that can’t possibly be turned into embarrassing sexual innuendo.” Spearing one of the sausage links on his plate, he slowly lifted it to his lips.

I paused with my burger an inch from my mouth to watch him. He never broke eye contact as he bit down on the tip.

I closed my eyes. “You don’t play fair.”

When I reopened them, his warm brown eyes stared into mine.

“Who wants to play fair? You’re too easy to fluster.”

I took a bite of my burger. Flirting was second nature to me. I did it with everyone—men, women, dogs, cats, and sometimes inanimate objects. My default mode of communication equaled flirting.

I had nothing on Warren. He was a master.

What was the word I’d used when we met?

Unsettled.

I couldn’t tell if this were his natural mode or if he really liked me.

I loved attention, but he was different. He fed off of walking on a thin edge of flirting and sexual harassment. He balanced between charm and spectacle, the kind to attract the wrong kind of people. We weren’t in San Francisco or New York. Locals here were less forgiving about openly in your face gays.

I wanted not to care about fitting in. Most of my life I played the clown to get people to like me.

Warren acted like he assumed people liked him.

I liked him.

I finished my burger and listened to him talk about how he got into glassblowing.

Unlike Warren, I did care if people liked me.

I wanted him to like me.

“Let’s get out of here.” He threw his napkin on his plate and made the international sign for the check.

Outside he lit up a cigarette, cupping the flame of the lighter against the breeze. He offered me the lit cigarette and I took it. Inhaling the warm smoke, I squinted against the burn.

“Now what?” I exhaled and made smoke rings.

“Let’s have some fun. I’ll drive.”

He led me across the gravel away from the lights of the diner to his small pickup truck

When he pulled out his keys and opened my door, I decided to be bold.

“Whatta Man” ~ Salt-N-Pepa

I SURPRISED HIM
when I grabbed his hips and spun him around to face me.

He blinked at me for a few seconds before he clued into my intentions. He dropped his cigarette to the ground, then took mine and crushed both under his boot.

I lunged toward him, thinking I’d go straight for the kiss.

Instead he held me back by placing his hands on my shoulders. Now I stared at him. Was he rejecting me?

Before I could process why he held me back, he yanked me closer by the front of my leather jacket until our bodies almost touched. One hand released its grip and moved over my chest. I wondered if he could feel my heart racing under my T-shirt.

His lips brushed against the scruff on my cheek, followed by the drag of his teeth along my jaw.

I focused on breathing and steadying my flying pulse. My own hands rested on the semi-neutral territory of his jean-covered hips.

He teased me. Close enough I could feel heat flowing off of him, but he hadn’t kissed me yet.

I lifted my hand to his smooth jaw and stilled his movements. I felt his cheeks lift in a smile against my fingers.

“Quit teasing,” I whispered.

“Do something about it.”

I did.

My mouth crashed into his.

I tilted my head and kissed him. Sweeping my tongue across his bottom lip, I silently warned him before I kissed him harder, deeper. My tongue found his.

He spun us. My back rested against his truck. No longer were his hands still on my torso. He moved one to the back of my head and angled me how he wanted. My fingers sought warm skin above his jeans, underneath his shirt. His back was smooth and tight with muscle.

My moan echoed his. I wanted to touch more of his smooth back, shoving my hands under the cotton, lifting it out of the way.