Shane is on the worst date of his life.
She's nice and objectively very beautiful, but that's where it ends. His last failed date was at least into baseball - something they could pass the time with after realizing they weren't gonna be A Thing. But tonight...Christ.
They also wonât be A Thing, only itâs obvious in less of a 'haha oh well - anyway did you catch that save in the fifth inning' way and more of a '...........' way, on account of the fact that Shane's blasted through all his prepared talking points, and now has nothing to do but notice all the other elements of the evening that continue to taunt him.
The soup is a weird consistency. The little candle at their table snuffed out fifteen minutes ago, sitting dead beside the clump of lettuce he somehow managed to drop between the bowl and his plate. There's a tiny bit of brussels sprout caught between his lower back molars that's driving him fucking crazy, refusing to be dislodged by each subtle poke of his tongue.
And he thinks, maybe, that he wouldn't care so much about this trainwreck of an evening if he didnât feel like itâs being broadcast to the rest of the restaurant. Not that people are watching, really. Just one. Just the mean looking security guy who's posted up on the back wall, keeping an eye on the room with an easy, almost bored gaze that somehow keeps landing at Shane's table.
Or...well...less Shane's table, and more just Shane himself.
The restaurant is drenched in dim mood lighting, so he can't be positive it's a look of pity this guy's giving him. But realistically, he's not sure what else it could be. Shane's blowing it, after all. Hard. This whole thing has turned into some sort of lowkey humiliation ritual, each pass of the guy's attention over him causing heat to crawl up the back of his neck.
Whatever. They're about halfway done with their entrees. And he's willing to bet she won't be taking the dessert menu when it comes around, which is fine by him. Theyâre in the home stretch.
Shane wipes his mouth with the weirdly scratchy cloth napkin. Pokes his tongue at his lower molars as he goes for his glass of wine. Can't help but flick his attention over to the back wall, warmth settling in his belly as he takes in, not for the first time, how that black uniform shirt snugly stretches over a tight chest, sleeves clinging around big biceps. Security guy works out. Obviously. He's a fucking security guy. And he's looking right at Shane again, just close enough to catch how his eyes dip down the front of Shane's dress shirt and then back up.
It's got something fluttering in Shane's chest as he pulls his gaze away, bringing his wine glass right back up before he can set it down again. Right. Okay.
"Are you nearby?"
Theyâre the first words out of his date's mouth in what feels like twenty minutes, and to be quite fucking honest it throws Shane, his brow pinching in light confusion.
"Sorry?" Such a hot thing to say. He couldn't be nailing this more, could he?
"Your place..." she says again, and there's this insistence in it that finally gets the cobwebbed wheels turning, "is it close?"
Shane blinks.
Schools a quick lift of his eyebrows before they can fly up.
Oh.
She thinks-...
"Uh..." Right, right right. "Yeah, about...half hour maybe?"
So, no.
That doesn't seem to deter her. She simply nods, then goes back to eavesdropping on the date that's going much better at the table behind her.
Theyâre laughing it up back there. Clinking their glasses. Thereâs lots to laugh about here too, but itâd be in a pathetic way that he just canât get himself to concede to yet. So, Shane tops off his dateâs glass. Eats his salmon. Shakes off the little flutter of interest that skips from his chest down into his lap as he once again catches eyes with security guy, who seems to be finding this all very entertaining. Doesnât seem mean at all, actually. The more Shane looks. The more he looks back.
More wine. Theyâre finishing the bottle. His date thanks him and is, to her credit, being very cool about how the metaphorical candle has clearly snuffed out between them before their meal is even done. Now they just need to get on the same page about metaphorical dessert.
Shane takes a gigantic swig, letting it sit in his mouth for a second before gulping it down - warm, warm, warm in his belly.
She thinks heâs gonna take her home and fuck her.
Maybe he should. To make it up to her.
Except Shane hasnât been hitting any homeruns on those lately either, has he?
Fuck.
The bottom of his wine glass clatters loudly against the edge of his plate as he sets it down too rough, movements suddenly unsteady. It pulls attention from all around, because of course it does. Everyone look at the idiot who can't hold his alcohol.
What a nightmare. Security guy must be fucking loving this one.
But when he glances over, the wall is empty. No silent, teasing eyes. No intriguing presence. No muscles, thick and sturdy and big enough that Shane could really put up a-
âBe back.â
In a single blink, his date has pulled herself up from the booth and made her way towards the bathroom, already digging into her purse without looking back.
Right. Actually, a break to reset sounds better than any dessert they could offer him here. So, with a little nod to inform their server that heâll be back too, he gathers himself and steps away from the table.
It's not until the cool October breeze washes over Shane's face that he realizes how warm he was getting.
Probably from the wine.
And the embarrassment.
And the impending doom settling in his guts, another realization not too far behind.
Whatever, he decides, using the privacy to slip a finger into his mouth and finally free his molars of the offensive feeling - thank god. Stupid brussels sprouts. They weren't even cooked right.
It's dark around the back of the restaurant. Nice and quiet too, tucked away from the busy road out front. Shane takes in the moment with a grounding tip of his head toward the moon with his eyes closed. Deep breath. Hold it. Don't think about why all his dates with women have been absolute dogshit. Aaaaand release.
Only when he breathes out, it's not alone.
He breathes out, and it's paired, horrifyingly, with a gentle huff of laughter from further down the building. The smell of fresh cigarette smoke.
Holy shit, heâs not alone.
Shane attempts to settle the startle in his heart, but it's no use when he turns to see the figure leaning up against the brick wall, those familiar eyes now watching him in the cool moonlight.
"Jesus Christ..." It slips out. Just on the end of Shane's breath. And suddenly he could really use another cool breeze for his face.
Because the security guy is as imposing as he was inside, simply trading moody burgundy for darkened brick. But his face is softer up close. Sweeter, somehow. And very, very handsome.
Shane tears his gaze away the second those lips curl into a teasing grin, shaking his head. All that red wine is really doing a number on him.
âWhen is big day?â
Oh god, his voice is deep.
Shaneâs gotta get it together. And yet, itâs impossible to keep from being drawn right back into that grin, even as he seeks clarification. âBig day?â
âMm, your wedding,â he says, nodding casually back inside without looking away. âLove at first sight, yes?â
It's...
Okay, so he really is an asshole. And whatâs that accent? Russian?
Shane hangs his head, but can't hold back the breathy chuckle that falls from him. No use in denying it, he guesses. Especially when he kinda wants to hear this guy talk to him some more. "Really funny stuff, man..."
"Mm."
"Wonât haveta worry about a wedding gift, at least."
"Oh, no? You were doing so well."
Something weirdly giddy flips through Shane's chest as he straightens to throw the security guy a look. Because now that it's just the two of them, he's out here openly fucking with him. And Shane knows that. So why is it making his body light up from head to toe?
It's the wine probably. Sweet red historically gets him acting stupid. Or maybe it's the way the guy holds Shane so comfortably in his attention, as he draws his cigarette up to his lips to take a lazy drag.
Shane swallows. Wets his bottom lip. Pulls his heavy gaze up from the glowing tip to meet those intriguing, sparkling eyes as smoke fills the air between them.
Wow.
"I uh-... I'm usually...better..." he hears himself say. The short noise of curiosity floating on the smokeâs coattails prompts him to clarify. "I like-...you know...have game."
It's not a lie. And yet Shane has somehow never felt more stupid than he does in this moment, the need to clarify to this man that he's not actually a loser suddenly very very important to him.
Which is why his body doesn't know what the fuck to do when it's getting hit by that smile again. That tease. The sweetly shitty headnod he gets as the guy gives him a little "Mm...okay."
Oh god Shane wants... Much more than he wanted when he was sitting across from his literal date. "Alright, fuck you..."
It shouldn't be this easy. He shouldn't be smiling so big with a stranger. Playing so much.
He should go inside. Capitalize on this feeling and use it to turn his date around.
Or he could stay right here, feet planted to the asphalt, acknowledging the wanting tug of his own body.
If he moves right now, itâs not gonna be in the direction of the door.
âWhat is your name.â
Shane swallows, nostrils flailing with a big breath in. âShaneâŚ?â He watches, with another one of those flutters under his rib cage, as his answer seems to satisfy. And before he can stop himself he hears it - from his own mouth - each word clung with the worst Russian accent possible. âWhat ees your name?â
Oh god what the fuck. Heâs never touching red wine again.
Not even the genuine grin curling across those tempting lips can make up for the embarrassment - the laughter. âWow. This is your best try?â
âNo,â Shane insists over a scowl. And to be honest he doesnât even know what heâs answering. His best accent? No. His best attempt at flirting? Also no.
Wait a minute. Is he flirting?
âIâm-⌠I should go back. âŚinside.â Never mind how somethingâs kicking and screaming in him at the thought. Never mind how he stays exactly where he stands.
A concept not lost on security guy. Who never did actually give him his name, by the way. âOkay, Shane.â
Itâs noticeably kinder than he could be. Heâs still teasing, obviously, but he says nothing about his date. No predictions on how the rest of his night will go. He just brings his cigarette up to his lips, pulling in a hit that hollows his cheeks in the dark as he keeps their eye contact.
Itâs the first time Shaneâs ever craved nicotine.
He needs to go inside bad.
With a huff, he pulls his phone out of his pocket. Half past eight. He has no idea how long heâs been out here. Only that itâs too long when heâs got someone waiting at the table for him. So they can pay. So they can leave. So they can-âŚ
Shane shifts uncomfortably, jaw squaring. And heâs not exactly sure how he lets it slip out, but it does all the same, the question far too genuine for the situation. âHow do I tell her Iâm not gonna fuck her?â
Itâs the setup of a lifetime. The perfect pitch for a grand slam. And yet the man in front of him doesnât swing.
No. Instead, he keeps Shane in his sights, eyes roaming up and down the blush hopefully hidden by the shadows back here. And then he answers. âSimple. You tell her you are fucking someone else tonight.â
Shane can feel the exact moment his stuttery little heart sinks from his chest to his dick - to his voice, quiet but undeniably curious. âSomeone elseâŚ?â
Because the atmosphere rushes forward with the guy, adrenaline spiking in his core as his phone is slipped out of his hand.
Shane watches him thumb something in with breaths that wonât fill his lungs. Swallows down whateverâs trying to fight its way out of his mouth right now, before it can shatter the tension and ruin the moment.
And when his phone is being handed back to him, Shaneâs heart is fucking pounding, eyes hungrily taking in whatâs been left on his screen.
A phone number. And a name.
Ilya.
He shoots his attention back up, but itâs too late. Security guy is making his way to the back door, snuffing out his cigarette on the brick.
Chatter and light and clinking glasses seep into the dark, easy vibe theyâve made themselves back here as he opens the door. A break in the trance. A pop of the bubble.
Shane pulls in a breath again, lungs burning.
And then Ilya tosses him a wink, voice low, âSee you soon.â
The door shuts behind him.
Everything grows dark and still again.
AndâŚ
Shane blinks, tossing glances to the right and left of him in borderline shock because what the fuck. What just happened to him? That was all real?
Thereâs a very good chance the brussels sprouts actually killed him and theyâre trying to resuscitate his lifeless body in the booth right now, his date long gone. ButâŚ
Another gust of October breezeâŚ
Excitement, potent and real in a way he hasnât felt for a long time nowâŚ
A smile works its way across Shaneâs lips as he double-checks the number on his screen, and then he pockets his phone, inspired to make his way back inside to-
All movement stops for a moment as he looks down at himself. Or, more specifically, the front of his pants.
Oh.
âŚwow.
Okay, a few more minutes and then heâll go back inside.
