A Betting Man / a Marrying Man (2 page)

Spencer was at his desk, as always, watching
Days of Our Lives
. I had to admit, there were some hot guys on that show.

“So,” I began, as I casually flopped down on the couch in his office. “Who’s got a brain tumor and who’s pregnant with twins who are fathered by two separate guys?”

Spencer chuckled. “That was
so
last year.”

“That’s so sad, Spencer.”

“How was the day?” Spencer turned in his chair as he hit ‘pause’ on the DVR.

You couldn’t talk to him during his stories. Well, unless you were me. I had a way of disregarding everything Spencer said. I don’t know why he put up with me.

“Oh! It was glorious!” I fanned myself with both hands frantically. “I saw David Beckham!”

“No shit?” Spencer’s eyes went wide.

“No, not really,” I laughed. “I delivered a package to Hawke advertising. The guy there, um, Samson? He looks like David Beckham.”

Spencer let out a low whistle.

“You mean Kent Samson, bachelor extraordinaire and complete and total jackass?”

“You know him?”

“Nah, his blood’s too blue for mine. He only dates high-profile women. I hear he’s cold and ruthless, too.”

“Huh,” I said, spreading out on the couch. “He struck me differently.”

“I bet,” Spencer waggled his eyebrows.

“Oh, there’s no denying the man has some crazy sex appeal, but I got a different vibe from him.”

“What kind of vibe? The one where he gets on his knees and gives you a blow job?”

I laughed loud at that one. Spencer had no issues with me being gay at all. In fact he wanted to know about the dates I’d gone on, which were few. I didn’t need anyone poking into my past or who I was.

“No, like he’s not
that
guy. There’s something different about him.”

And I really wanted to know what it was.

~KENT~

A man. Just fucking great. I saw that competitive gleam cross Blaine’s features and knew I was in for it. I had played it up in front of Blaine when—oh shit, what the fuck was his name? Barron? Terry Barron, that was it—when Terry was in front of me, but now? I’m not opposed to playing around with a man. I mean, shit, I had played around in college with Blaine. ‘Gay chicken’ was different though. It was a dare to see how far a straight guy would go. I’d kissed Blaine and touched his dick; it wasn’t Earth-shattering and we both knew it was part of the game, but this?

I slumped down in my chair with a heavy sigh. How was I going to pull this one off?

Granted, the guy was pretty cute. That floppy black hair with a dash of purple accentuated his liner-lined blue eyes, the sexy lift of his Cupid’s-bow lips. Oh Christ, this was not going to be easy. I fucked women; I fucked
a lot
of women. People knew me for the playboy that I was… am. Whatever. I wracked my brain to come up with a way to get out of this bet. I couldn’t find one single thing that would pass as an excuse. If I hadn’t kissed Blaine and rubbed his damn cock I would have been able to use the straight flag. Yeah, right.

As if he could hear my damn thoughts, Blaine snickered in the chair across from me.

“You can still get out of it.”

I narrowed my eyes at Blaine. “Yeah, and you’ll come up with some horrible task for me to do which will land me in jail again. No thanks. I just have to figure out how I’m going to run into this guy.”

“Well, you can always slum,” Blaine grinned wickedly.

I rolled my eyes at Blaine. Most people thought he was a pretentious asshole; he really was. Oh, don’t get me wrong, he was one of my best friends, but when we’d first met he’d looked at me like I was something he’d accidently stepped in.

Back then, I had a Southern accent from hell and said y’all a lot. Fortunately for me, I had the ‘Beckham’ look which got me plenty of tail and after a while, Blaine realized the jewel he had in me. He taught me how to speak properly (well, Blaine’s properly) and after a year, no one would have guessed I was from a small town in the middle of nowhere. Blaine had Rosetta Stone beat by a longshot. They could use him for a ‘learn to speak New York City’ tape.

I sighed and flipped my pencil at him.

“How about ‘Unforgiven’?” I offered.

Blaine tilted his head and looked at me. “Are we talking about me or the perfume?”

“The perfume, because Porsche is never going to forgive me when I tell her I can’t fuck her anymore.”

* * * *

My apartment was spotless. The maid had come by today and I looked around my comfort zone. My clothes were neatly put away, suits hung up, food in the fridge. I threw my suit on the bed and walked to the bathroom. Turning the water on for the shower, I checked out my reflection in the mirror. I was twenty-eight and worked in one of the biggest advertising firms in New York. I had an apartment with a view of Central Park and a Ferrari in the parking garage. So why did I always feel like I was missing something?

I shook my head at my reflection and got into the shower. The hot water instantly relaxed my muscles and washed the day away. I thought about the Terry guy again. How in the hell was I going to run into him? I was Upper West Side; he was…well, not.

His clothes looked like he shopped in a thrift store. How could I possibly take him out to any of the places I frequented? I’d have to get him a makeover for sure. No one would ever believe I’d date someone like Terry Barron.

I could work with him though; he had good looks going for him. Well, under the eyeliner and black and purple hair. That would be the first thing to go, along with the earring. I rinsed the shampoo from my hair and soaped up my cock. It was beautiful, so I’d been told. Many women had happily wrapped their lips around it. I smiled and rinsed off.

I stepped onto the heated floor of my bathroom and dried off. My bed was made with hospital corners, and a king-sized white down comforter adorned it. I threw my shams to the side and slid into perfection. Folding my arms behind my head, I stared up at the ceiling.

Tomorrow I would have to end my fuckfest with Porsche and hope she didn’t cry to my bosses. Then I had to come up with a plan to snag Terry Barron. There was no way I was going to lose this bet to Blaine. I’d never hear the end of it. I thought back to my college days with Blaine and our ‘gay chicken’ games. Blaine always backed off first, but on more than one occasion, he’d been sporting a boner. The time I got into his jeans, he’d been leaking precum after our kiss.

Blaine had finally come out our junior year and said he was bi. Big surprise there. I snorted and the sound echoed in my bedroom. I guess I needed more furniture. I closed my eyes and for the hundredth time tried to figure out how I was going to accidently-on-purpose run into Terry Barron. I had a name, and I knew what he did for a living.

Cassidy Messengers was down in the heart of Manhattan. I would start there in the morning. My cell phone beeped at me and I picked it up off the nightstand. Blaine had texted me.

Goodnight, Romeo.

Asshole,
I typed back. I got a smiley face two seconds later.

What a dick.

~TERRY~

I opened my eyes to see Friday morning’s sunlight and a black cat staring at me. Mrs. Stansloupous’ cat was eyeing me warily. I always left my window partially open during the winter for the cool air. I liked it cold and I slept better, but that habit had earned me a black cat named Figaro. He did his job, though; my apartment was rat free. I threw my legs over the side of the bed and hissed at the cold floor. I shook my slippers out and put them on. Trudging to my tiny kitchen, I poured my first morning cup of wake-the-fuck-up. Figaro decided to slither around my calves as I tried to wake up fully, almost tripping me. The sounds of the city were already audible and I yawned and scratched my head. Then I thought of Kent Samson. I grabbed my laptop and set it up on my kitchen table. Firing it up, I went about making something to eat as it loaded.

Eggs, bacon and toast later, I was poring through articles about Kent Samson. Brilliant and ruthless stood out first. He’d taken away clients from some of the biggest names in the advertising world with one meeting. He was hated and revered all at once. Other than his business life, there was nothing much… except for his need to fuck high-profile women. Pictures of him at expensive restaurants with blondes, brunettes and redheads filled the ‘images’ section of Google
.
I played with the purple streak in my hair. He had such a beautiful face. I enlarged the picture and looked at the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen. Kent Samson had won the genetic lottery
.
I wondered what he had under that suit.

I looked at the time and my eyes widened. I was going to be late. Throwing on my jeans and shirt, I stuffed a piece of toast in my mouth and hightailed it out the door. My bike seemed to fit me like a glove today as I rode the streets of New York. I stopped by my favorite coffee joint, Joe’s Café, and picked up mine and Spencer’s usual. I rode the rest of the way to work one-handed, something I learned the first time I’d gotten coffee on my bike.

Spencer was seated at his desk looking through paperwork. Another pile of packages stacked against the door let me know the crew and I would be busy today. Spencer looked up as I set his coffee down on the desk.

“Thanks. You look like hell,” he said cheerfully.

“Aw, you’re so sweet!” I pinched his cheek and flopped down on the couch to drink my coffee. Spencer, always businesslike, gave me the deliveries for the day. I looked them over and thought about how I and the rest of the messengers would break them up; I usually get first dibs since I’d been around the longest. “I’ll take the first six since they’re all around the same area.”

Spencer nodded to me and scribbled on a sheet of paper. I knew he was in work mode so I finished my coffee, grabbed my packages and headed out.

I was done with the first four by noon. My stomach was screaming at me to eat and this time I just couldn’t pass up that mouthwatering hot dog calling to me. I locked up my bike and headed into Gray’s. I ordered my favorite, covered in onions, and stood outside to eat it. Life went by fast in New York, you had to pay close attention or you’d miss it.

“Well now, funny meeting you here.”

I turned and almost dropped my hot dog. Kent Samson was grinning at me.

“Um…”

“It’s Kent,” he prompted.

He put his hand out and I wiped mine on my jeans before taking his. His hand was warm and slid over my skin like velvet. I swear my dick nudged my balls in a ‘did you feel that?’ move because my jeans suddenly got tighter down there. Lord, this man was gorgeous.

“Yeah, hi. Terry,” I babbled like a complete idiot.

“Oh, I remember
your
name.” Kent looked me over from my Vans to my purple streak. Now I was at full mast and trying to hide my erection with my jacket. He didn’t seem to notice my tent pole so I relaxed a bit.

I noticed he also had an onion-covered hot dog in his hand, just like mine. I gestured to it.

“So, no hot date?”

“Excuse me?” Kent arched a perfectly manscaped brow at me.

“The hot dog? I take it there’s no hot date soon if you’re eating that many onions.”

He chuckled deep in his throat and I swore precum leaked down my leg.

“No, no hot date.”

He tilted his head looking at me. “Unless you’re free this evening?”

Okay, normally I’m like, all cool and shit, but Kent Samson knocked me for a loop.

“E-excuse me?” I stammered.

“Oh, I’m sorry, was I wrong in thinking you’re gay? If so, I apologize. My gaydar has been known to be off.”

Oh bloody hell. Shit. Did my English side just come out? Kent stared at me.

“I…uh.”

“Don’t answer me now. Here’s my card. If you decide you want to go out, let me know.”

Kent gave me his thousand watt smile and my knees almost buckled. I finally found the fortitude to open my mouth and not sound like some sissy English nanny.

“And do what?” I asked. Kent seemed surprised I answered him. “Yes, I’m gay, but it’s obvious you’re not. So again, I have to ask—and do what? More importantly, why me? What could we possibly have in common?”

Kent seemed to think about my question thoroughly before answering me. I swear I saw smoke coming out of his ears from the spinning gears.

“One,” he held a finger up. “Just because I sleep with women doesn’t mean I can’t be attracted to a man. Maybe I keep that side to myself. Two,” he held up a second finger. “I like movies; we could do that or maybe even just get a coffee. We won’t know if we have anything in common unless we spend some time together, now will we? Besides, you’re easy on the eyes and you have a nice ass.”

I narrowed my eyes at him looking for a hint of sarcasm. He looked at me very seriously and I smiled. Just a bit.

“Is there a three?” I asked.

“There could be, but I like a bit of mystery, don’t you?”

He raised both brows at me and a sexy grin appeared on those luscious lips. Red flags went up all over and were squashed by my cock and balls.

“Okay,” I said, a bit grudgingly.

Kent seemed shocked but composed himself quickly. I had to give him credit for that. I’d barely seen it in his eyes. This man was used to getting whatever he wanted, when he wanted it. Well, I wasn’t going to spread my legs that easily. At least I didn’t
want
to. My dick laughed at me.

“So, sevenish? Should I pick you up?” Kent asked.

I thought about that. I loved my apartment, but I had a feeling Kent lived in a much nicer neighborhood. For once I missed my old life.

“I can meet you wherever you want?”

Kent shook his head slowly. “What do
you
want to do?”

I rubbed my hands together as the devil on my shoulder reared his ugly head. It was December in New York and I had a feeling Kent Samson had never been out anywhere that didn’t have champagne and caviar. Time to see if Kent meant business or was just fucking about.

“Ice skating,” I said with a smile.

“Ice skating?”

“Yep.”

“Okayyy,” Kent drawled.

Did I detect a hint of country in that ‘okay’? I’d been in New York and around the tourists long enough to know a Kentucky drawl from an Alabama one… and Kent Samson sounded like Alabama. He seemed to notice his mistake and coughed lightly into his hand.