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“Anyway, when Harry quit, he asked me if I wanted to take over, and I said yes, because I’d already covered for him once when he was in a bind, and it’s a fun way to make some cash, you know?”
“Oh. I think…I think it’s really cool you’re so positive about it.”
A waiter came to take their order, and Tristan ordered for them with a wink at Leo that did something twisty to his insides. “Well, it is pretty fun, when you think about it.”
Leo took a gulp of his margarita. “I guess it is. It’s not for everyone, though. I mean, there are risks, right?” He hoped he didn’t sound judgemental or anything.
Tristan nodded. “Yeah, for sure. I’ve been banned by four restaurants in the CBD alone.”
“What?” Leo’s jaw dropped as he tried to imagine what Tristan was doing that could lead to a restaurant ban.
Tristan laughed. “Hey, I only do what the customer wants. Oh, do we want corn chips and salsa for starters? Yeah, we do.” He waved the waiter over and added to their order. Leo wondered how it was that Tristan was the polar opposite to the type of guy he normally dated, yet somehow, he was having more fun than he’d had in a long time.
He decided not to overthink it and just enjoy Tristan’s company instead. After all, if his dad’s ambitions came to anything, it was probably the only chance he’d get.
Chapter Nine
Tristan didn’t mean to drink four margaritas over dinner. He’d drunk the first two because he’d been nervous about being on a date, then he’d drunk the second two because he’d been having a good time and they were, frankly, delicious. So by the time he paid the bill—waving away Leo’s offer to split it—he was feeling a little bit shiny. Also, his cheeks were numb.
Once he’d gotten over his nerves and moved past that whole awkward part where he’d inadvertently invited Leo to sniff his hair, he’d had fun. Sure, some of it was the margaritas, but it was also that Leo was funny and clever and good company, and when he smiled and his eyes lit up, Tristan’s insides did a thing where they went all warm and gooey at the sight. It was nothing at all like the usual lust Tristan felt when faced with an attractive man, and he didn’t want to examine it too closely.
It didn’t help that Leo had wrapped an arm around Tristan’s waist in an effort to help him stay upright as he swayed in place. At least, that was what Tristan assumed. What if Leo was being more than a helpful crutch? What if this was one of those body language things he was frankly terrible with, because he liked to skip straight from prolonged eye-fucking right to actual fucking, with name exchange an optional extra. In his first ever night in a gay bar he’d said, “Hi, I’m eighteen today. Wanna blow me in the toilets?” He’d never looked back, and he had never regretted it for even a second in the decade since, except maybe just a tiny bit right now, when he was totally off balance and couldn’t blame it all on the tequila.
The warm press of Leo’s body against his side had to be deliberate, right? And the way his hand was affixed to Tristan’s hip like he’d glued it there. Tristan turned his head and found it put him in the perfect position to sniff Leo’s hair, which struck him as somehow poetic. He inhaled before he could think too hard about it.
They stumbled to a stop outside a kebab place, and Leo said, “Are you smelling my hair?”
“No,” Tristan lied.
“Because I thought I was supposed to smell yours,” Leo said. “Sand and surf, right?”
Tristan blinked at him.
They were standing face to face now, both of them illuminated by the flashing lights tacked up around the kebab shop’s windows. Somehow both of Leo’s hands were on Tristan’s hips now, and somehow they were both swaying gently to the strains of Arabic pop that drifted out of the shop.
“Right,” Tristan said. “Sand and surf.”
Leo leaned in and kissed him, which was a weird way to smell his hair, but whatever. Tristan wasn’t going to argue. Leo’s lips tasted of salt, tequila and Korean barbeque tacos.
Leo lifted one of his hands to Tristan’s hair, pulling it free from its bun, and Tristan didn’t even care that it had taken him ages to get it looking just right. He didn’t care about anything except this kiss—not his hair, not the traffic rushing past them on the street and not the claps and cheers of the guys behind the counter at the kebab shop, who clearly appreciated the show. Somehow this seemed more intimate, more real, than anything Tristan had ever done, which frankly was saying something.
Leo pulled back, wide eyed and pink-cheeked. “Was that all right?”
“More than,” Tristan said, slightly surprised he got the words out without slurring them. Which had nothing to do with those four margaritas—he felt sober as a judge suddenly—and everything to do with the way that kiss had pole-axed him.
“How far away is the house from here?”
“About ten minutes.”
“Okay,” Leo said. “Let’s go.”
Tristan had no idea what the hell had happened to shy little Leo, but…oh, wait. Tristan had happened. He had taken dull little Leo Fisher and dragged him out of his boring little chrysalis so that he too could be a bright slutty butterfly. And now they were both about to reap the rewards.
He grinned, caught Leo by the hand and pulled him down the street.
The guys at the kebab shop yelled out their encouragement, but Tristan was pretty sure they didn’t need it.
The lights in the downstairs hallway didn’t turn on when Tristan hit the switch. He should probably complain to someone about that. Like the landlord. But frankly he had more important things he wanted to do with the landlord. Like fucking his brains out. He pressed Leo back against the wall and kissed him in the dark hallway, deep and filthy. Their tongues didn’t so much battle for dominance as work in synergy, filling the spaces in each other’s mouths. Leo let out a soft whine when Tristan tugged at Leo’s shirt and slipped a hand under the hem, tracing his fingertips over warm skin. The sound went straight to Tristan’s cock. “Upstairs?” he breathed in Leo’s ear.
