Ezra’s about six feet away from me and he’s moving fast. “Well, look at you.”
I open my mouth like I’m going to say something intelligent. Shockingly, nothing comes out.
“I gotta say there is no world where I pictured you in a buttery leather jacket and jeans that made your thighs look like...that. Thick, baby. Oh dear lord, wrap them around me, please and thank you, sir.”
The connection between my brain and my mouth must be broken—I’m a jock, not a poet—so I simply reach for him, tugging on his silky shirt to bring him closer.
“We can’t have sex,” he says while rubbing his belly against mine.
“Someone in line ahead of me?”
He squints at me. “Who? Mondo? He wishes.”
I decide for my own peace of mind that Mondo is the guy on the platform and let the whole thing go. It helps that Ezra’s bare ribs are warm under my palms. I lean close enough to catch a hint of lavender and whiskey. No cigarettes tonight, which strikes me as odd. “Buy you a drink?”
“Nah, I’m still drunk from earlier.” He scoots his belt around to reveal a small purse hanging from it. Unzips. Pulls out a damn lollipop. This one is pink and there’s a small ribbon around the base. He holds it out, like I might want it.
“I’m good.” I raise my beer. “But knock yourself out.”
We’ve managed this much conversation by basically screaming in each other’s ears. I’d like to talk to him, to figure out the psychic thing if nothing else. I have trouble imagining Ezra Morgue telling anybody he can’t have sex for any reason—dude doesn’t give off the abstinence vibe at all—and I want to dig into that, too.
I’m busy perseverating when he grabs my hand. “C’mon.” We cross an empty-ish corner of the dance floor to an open space along the wall. “There.” He positions us so I’m leaning against the wall and he’s leaning against me.
I give in to something like jealousy and spread my hand over his belly the way that guy had it on the dance floor. He grabs my pinky and moves it, which makes me take my hand away, a little annoyed. Laughing, he grabs me and puts my hand back maybe an inch higher from where it was,. Tipping his head against my shoulder, he shouts, “No sex.”
“Whatever.” I probably didn’t say it loud enough for him to hear. Whatever. I like having him this close, my chin resting on the top of his head, the floral scent of his product mixed with sweat. I survey the crowd without seeing anyone I recognize. Not that it matters. I was pretty much out as bi during my playing days, at least to the other guys on the team. Most of them were cool with it, except for one homophobic asshole who couldn’t keep his mouth shut.
I made it a point to flirt with that dude’s girlfriend every chance I got.
The music’s so loud the bass vibrates against my sternum, and the rhythm shifts from one song to the next. “Do you want to dance?”
Ezra relaxes against me. “We should.”
Neither of us moves. I take the opportunity to finish my beer.
It doesn’t really matter to me whether we dance or not. Ezra’s the reason I’m here, and at this point I’m willing to go along with whatever he wants.
When the music changes again, he takes my hand. “This one.”
On the way to the dance floor, I set my beer bottle on an empty table. We face each other, and he starts to move.
If he was pretty before, now he’s beautiful.
For a guy who had a reputation as an athlete, on the dance floor I stick with a white boy bop. With Ezra Morgue as inspiration, though, I manage to raise my game. He’s got his arms in the air, his hips caught by the beat. His shirt’s unbuttoned and his skin is perfectly smooth, with a sheen like he’s used some subtle glitter cream. His whole presence is so full of light, so graceful. As late as it is, I’m glad we’re here. I’m glad I get to see this.
I do my best to follow him, or at least not look like a lump he’s dancing around. Whatever song the DJ is playing must be popular. Other dancers crowd us, and Ezra moves closer.
The music shifts to something I sorta recognize and he gets close enough to run his hands over my coat sleeves. His lips are glossier than the dear Lord made them; pinker, too. Makes me want to kiss him.
Another song, another move closer.
By the time the next song starts, he’s got one thigh between mine and I’ve got my hands around his waist. We’re rocking in rhythm, and he grabs my shirt and pulls. “No sex,” he yells, right in my ear.
I gotta laugh at that. It’s good manners to check with someone before getting physical but he’s the one who closed the gap between us and stuck his leg between mine. I’m still wearing my leather coat, so I’m sweating for all kinds of reasons. “Let’s go someplace cooler, then.”
He twirls away from me, though not very far, and stops with his hands on his hips. His grin is natural, relaxed, so different from the jacked-up guy who showed up at my apartment. He tilts his head, his expression curious. “Walk me home?”
“I could do that.” If we get to a place where we can talk, I’m damned sure going to ask him about theno sexthing, and a late-night stroll seems like a better bet than standing in the middle of a crowded club.
