Straight Man Gay by Danny Culpepper

Author:Danny Culpepper [Culpepper, Danny]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: romance, love, gay, humor, sex, england, sexy, funny, london, men, lovers, straight
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13: He Deserves A Bickie

Brian – March 2

“Are you okay, Mickey?”

“Don’t worry so much, my good old mate. I promise I won’t break my ne—” Mickey cuts himself off and freezes on the drafty stairway. “I’m sorry, Brian. I wasn’t thinking.”

A sharp pain cleaves my chest, but it quickly passes. “Don’t worry. It’s okay. Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

“Of course. This is nothing. I’m not even close to being pissed. I’ll be fine.” He resumes swaying up the stairs. “And Brian,” he adds, carefully looking back over his shoulder, “it was a lovely gift—a fabulous surprise for Johnny. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Mickey. Goodnight.” I make sure he gets through the front door of his condo and head back down the stairs into the chilly night air. I gaze at the dark clouds. It’s going to rain hard tonight and it’s going to be bitterly cold. Now I have to deal with John. Mickey was easy. He was drunk. John isn’t drunk and John isn’t Mickey. I climb into the Rolls. “So, John, you’re next. Where do you live? We’ll have you home in no time.” I try to say it lightly but the words sound as strained and uneasy as I feel.

“I’d like to talk.” He’s looking down at the floorboards.

“John, it’s late. I think—”

“Please, Brian. I just…. I need to get some things straight in my head. Please.”

I look out the window and sigh. Then I hit the comm. “Jack, head back to the flat, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

We make the long ride in silence—sitting across from each other but not looking at each other. We’re trying to figure out what we want to say, and what we need to say. I take a moment to text Charles, letting him know he can leave for the night and then stare out the window until we arrive. The walk through the lobby, past Brenda (ending her shift for the night) and the lift ride are just as silent. I need to convince him this infatuation is pointless—that there’s no way he can go on wishing I were gay. Martin made it clear at the restaurant: He appreciated the surprise dinner and my tolerance for Prissy’s harmless antics (even after he twice streaked through the main dining hall warbling We Are The Champions with three stunned waiters frantically chasing his tiny naked ass), but he expected me to let John know it was a friendly gesture and nothing more. Of course, he also warned me not to let him into the flat again. But what harm can one last visit do? John isn’t a serial killer. He’s a nice young bloke who’s just a bit confused. I open the door, walk in after him and turn on the lights. I wait while he takes off his coat and hang it up, along with mine, in the closet. I gesture him into the living room, follow him and veer off toward the bar. I pour a scotch. “Drink?”

“No, thank you.”

“Sit down, John.

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