Change of Course (Change of Hearts #3) - Sierra Hill
I spot the closeted gay man the minute I see him.
It’s not too hard in this raucous bar filled with out and proud men. But I confirm my suspicions when he orders his first drink. It’s in the way his eyes flash away discreetly, avoiding mine except for a flick of a second when they sear into mine right before he drops them to the table.
But in that one moment of hesitation, two things become abundantly clear about this man. One, he is daringly gorgeous with a level of sophistication and confidence only found in well-bred, groomed, and pedigreed upper-class men of wealthy means. I see it in the tailored and well-designed three-piece suit (who even wears those anymore?) and the glint of his expensive watch. And lest we forget the shiny black credit card he hands to me.
Yeah, that black card.
The second, and more telling aspect of his closeted gayness, is the way he licks his bottom lip and then sucks in a deep breath when our eyes do meet only for the briefest of moments. There’s a look of both discomfort and desire warring against each other, as if he’s deciding whether to do something about the attraction or let it be.
And let me tell you, I’m not an easy man to walk away from. I know how to turn on the charm and charisma with the sweep of my full mouth.
But even my flirty grin that usually works like a charm when I turn it on doesn’t do the trick with this one. The man glances away as if resolving to keep his hands off and look but not touch.
It’s a shame because there are lots of goods available in this lust-filled haven.
Yeah, I know. I’m shameless and am not lacking in the self-confidence department. But I do tell it like I see it and I have a knack for recognizing the closeted ones who want something from me. Truth be told, I’ve seen them all walk through these bar doors all looking for the same thing: a safe place to let loose and be who they were born to be.
If you’re wondering what I like, I’m a bit of a daddy-chaser. Well, a reformed one that is because I’ve turned over a new leaf ever since my ex dropped me like an old hag for a newer model. Despite that bitter resentment, I’m a pretty easy-going guy and will sleep with anyone who’s down for a good time. That’s what happens when your heart is shattered to pieces and you’re kicked out of the only home you ever shared with the man you thought would be your forever.
Fuck forevers. I won’t fall into that sham again.
I continue to watch – and not all that surreptitiously, either - the man at the end of the bar who I find mildly entertaining.
My Spidey-senses tell me he is someone who is in such deep denial of his sexuality that he might as well be the GM of California Closets because he will never step out of the well designed closet he’s designed for himself.
I shake my head at the inevitable. The guy is too easy to read. He’s just looking for something other than the Mitzys or Buffys he’s dated all his entire life under the guise of a straight man, and instead have a hot fuck with a Charles or a William.
Yet even here, at Cactus Pete’s, the gay bar I work at in downtown Phoenix, where it’s open season on any willing guy, he’s as emotionally and physically closed off as a dam.
And it’s a shame because he is one hot, tall perfect package that I wouldn’t mind undressing and seeing if I could bring him to his knees with my mouth.
Checking in on the few customers as I work my way down the bar to Mr. Closet, I sidle up to him across the bar counter, dropping my elbow, and lazily prop my chin in my palm.
“How’s the dirty martini going down? Dirty enough for you?”
I give him a saucy smile and a playful wink as his eyes dart to mine. And whoa. I’m taken by the level of intensity in his outrageously green marbled gaze, the flecks of gold and copper brightening his otherwise secretive eyes.
“Huh?” he responds, clearly startled, as he’d been reading over some paperwork laid out on the bar top. His gaze drifts to the empty glass in front of him and his fingers curl around the stem, pushing it toward me as