Wouldn’t it be fun to tell her why Grandfather had kept tabs on him? Right. “Yes, Mother.” He stood from his desk, hoping to signal the end of their little tête-à-tête. It wasn’t, of course: she spent another ten minutes instructing him on various points of behavior before he managed to convince her he had an important text.
For the most part, Tierney didn’t let the old guy’s death get to him, but after a conversation like that, he deserved a drink after work. Or three. Whatever it took to forget.
Half a bottle of liquor into his night, well buzzed but not quite drunk yet, sitting on his couch and watching Star Trek for lack of anything more interesting to do, it hit Tierney that drinking alone was a sign of alcoholism.
But he wasn’t an alcoholic, right? He was just using it to deal with a temporary period of stress.
What about tomorrow? Are we doing this forever?
Seriously, who asked you?
Loser.
If he were drinking with someone this wouldn’t be so pathetic. All of “this”: the being in love with his best friend but not able to have him, and the being in the closet shit, and what his life had become.
Fuck. Why had he thought about that stuff? Now one of the inmates, Morose, pulled up a barstool, not saying much but depressing the shit out of the place. Tierney stared into his bourbon on the rocks, feeling more alone than he ever had in his life. More so than after he’d found out about Ian and Sam. Or maybe this was just a different kind of alone.
Alcohol used to be his friend at times like this. It used to shore up his confidence and his defenses, and make all that lying possible. He used to never be alone with beer or bourbon by his side. Tequila he’d reserved for instilling courage.
“Not my friend anymore, are you?” He glared at his drink, then past it at Captain Kirk, macking on some alien chick. Gross. Weird how he used to think Kirk was such a stud, but now the guy seemed kind of pathetic. He took himself way, way too seriously, and he wasn’t the hot shit he thought he was.
“Nice pecs,” he told the TV. The Kirk currently inhabiting it broke off his kiss, gazing meaningfully into the eyes of Enemy Alien Chick, who of course he was about to bonk. “Sulu has abs, though,” Tierney hollered at him.
Kirk ignored him in favor of the precoital fade-to-black.
Tierney pointed his glass at the TV screen. “You’re a womanizer, Kirk, but you can’t fool me. I’ve been there, man. You be careful, or you’ll end up in the same place I’m in.” He hit the Pause button, capturing Kirk in postcoital dishabille. (Dude didn’t last long, did he? One commercial break and he’d shot his wad.) Squinting at the image, he tried to decide: could Kirk be gay?
And if so, would Tierney do him?
“Probably,” he muttered, starting the show again. He’d pretty much do anyone, right? He was sex starved. Stupid, fickle male sex drive. He could think he loved one guy, but now spend all his masturbatory time imagining what another guy would feel like naked and pressed up against him.
I wonder what he’s doing right now?
Tierney glanced at the next cushion over, where his phone was lying. Its screen was so blank and sad. “Let’s be alone together.” Picking it up, he brought it to brilliant life, mesmerized by the phone’s cheery display of apps in sparkling, jewel-toned colors.
The text bubble looked especially promising. He stroked it, fingertip language for “hello there,” and the program bloomed to life on his screen, cursor blinking, inviting him to reach out.
Only one person had recently invited Tierney to contact him if he needed a friend.
What the hell did he text? What are you doing? That seemed casual and non-needy. Didn’t it?
While he waited for a response, his heart beat unsteadily, right up in his jugular. Dalton probably thinks I’m pathetic. Dude might not even answer.
Thirty seconds, then a minute, then Kirk fighting off Enemy Alien Chick’s spurned love interest. But Tierney wasn’t watching the show, he was staring at his phone’s glaring white display, hoping. Knowing how the scientists who’d sent out those golden records in the Voyager spacecrafts must feel. Waiting for another being to notice and respond.
I’m reading, Dalton texted back. What are you doing?
Tierney collapsed on the couch, breath whooshing out of him. His screen rotated when he flopped over, making it hard for him to find the right letters, but he got a response sorted and hit Send. Texting you.
I figured that out. :-) How are you doing?
All right. He pushed himself back up on one arm, not sure where to go from here. He’d hoped to find other life in his universe, but now that he’d found it, what did he do?
Invite it back to earth, of course.
Would you like to come over?
God, if Dalton hadn’t been reading one of those books Sam had recommended, or if Sam had bothered to mention that all those books were so freaking erotic, or if Dalton hadn’t been in the middle of a sex scene when Tierney texted . . . then he wouldn’t be in this position. Standing in the fifth-floor hallway of the Welsea Lofts Building—of course Tierney would have a penthouse condo in the most expensive neighborhood in the city—in his new skinny-core, striped button-down, which was supposed to look like business casual but was really about showing off slim but toned torsos.
He’d actually changed into this shirt. And fixed his hair. And now he found himself hoping Tierney would notice.
“Oh my God,” he whispered, his finger hovering over the doorbell. This was such a horrible idea.
What happened to avoiding this attraction?
He said he needed a friend. I can hardly reject him now.
Believe that if you want.
Tierney yanked the door open. “Are you gonna ring that or what?” In his hand was a glass of something alcoholic. People didn’t drink apple juice out of highballs, and they didn’t put ice cubes in.
It hadn’t occurred to Dalton that Tierney might not be sober, though it should have. His voice on the intercom when he buzzed Dalton in hadn’t sounded drunk, but the audio quality had been awful. Regardless, it was obvious now. Tierney was red-eyed and not quite steady on his feet.
Dalton smiled. First, because Tierney was barefoot, and dressed like a slob, which was oddly, unexpectedly charming. Second, because a drunk Tierney was something he could totally avoid being attracted to.
He pushed Tierney’s button. Ding-dong.
Tierney frowned, looking half-angry and half-confused, watching Dalton’s finger. Then he grinned. “You’re funny.”