On and Off Page 2

  Speaking of losing points, Jackson had screwed up with Wallflower, his online adversary turned crush. He should’ve been put off by Wallflower’s abrasive manner and conflicting opinions, but instead he’d become enthralled, even more so when he’d figured out Wallflower was gay. At a time when most of the people in his life either hovered or disappeared, and his world had become all too small, he’d come to rely on his arguments with Wallflower to remind him there was more beyond his own four walls. After the way Wallflower had shut down on him this afternoon, however, it appeared Jackson’s interest was one-sided.

  “Hey, Jacks.” Marcus interrupted his thoughts, dragging someone along in his wake. “This is Mitchell Abend. Mitchell, Jackson Wallach. Sorry to drop and run, but I need to talk to Darius for a moment. Play nice, kids,” he said with a wink. With that, he walked away, leaving Jackson and Mitchell staring at each other awkwardly.

  “I’m going to kill him. Both of them. And maybe hide Lillie’s skate guards, too.” The guy, Mitchell, stood next to the table, muttering to himself and stepping away as if to go, then turning back and staring at Jackson.

  Mitchell looked familiar, but Jackson couldn’t place the handsome face. Not a single light brown hair strayed out of place, cropped short on the sides and a bit longer on top. His eyes seemed to pierce right through Jackson, making him wish the lights in the club were bright enough to determine their exact shade of green. He appeared to be about Jackson’s height of five-eleven but more slight in build. His charcoal T-shirt molded tightly to a taut stomach, and he had rangy muscles that moved with an innate grace, even though he was clearly irritated.

  “You staying or going? You’re making me dizzy.” But oh my god, the bubble butt Mitchell flashed as he turned away from the table had Jackson wishing the guy would pace back-and-forth a few more times. Or hold still while Jackson slid deep inside. Hello, libido. I’ve missed you.

  Mitchell placed his highball glass on the table and dropped into a seat with a grumble. “Are we being set up?”

  “Not that I was made aware.” He’d have declined the invitation if he had. “Although ever since Zach married Sam, he thinks he’s Noah.” When Mitchell cocked his head to the side, Jackson clarified, “Everyone should walk two-by-two.”

  Mitchell pointedly looked at the gay men crowding the dance floor. “Minus the reproductive potential, I’m assuming.” Mitchell ran his fingers through his hair, and Jackson curled his own hand into a fist to resist the temptation to follow. “Who’s Zach? I was lured here—possibly under false pretenses—by Marcus and Tyler.”

  “Another couple that’s too cute for words,” Jackson said. “Although Marcus would take out a hit on me for saying so.”

  “Sounds like you’ve known them for a while.”

  “Since college. I’d probably still be trying to pass calc for poets if not for Zach. Marcus was one of his roommates.”

  “And did you go on to become a poet?”

  “I might be able to come up with the occasional limerick after a few drinks, but that’s the extent of my poetic ability. I’m a political science professor. How about you?”

  “Figure skating coach.” Mitchell’s eyes took on a challenging gleam and his fingers tightened around his drink.

  That’s why he looked so familiar. Mitchell Abend had been all over the news a few years ago. He was a confident brash superhero leading up to the last Olympics and a poster child for “don’t let this happen to you” ever since. He’d developed an unrequited crush on one of his fellow competitors, and the guy went public about Mitchell’s advances during the competition. Mitchell wound up finishing well out of medal contention, while his accuser went on to win gold. Mitchell’s face in the tabloids had appeared pale with shock rather than red-cheeked with embarrassment, and Jackson had been left wondering if there was more to the story than met the eye. Without anyone to contradict the other skater, however—Mitchell had issued a short press release admitting to being a “proud gay man” but refused to answer any questions about the incident—the press took the allegations at face value and engaged in salacious speculation over how Mitchell’s sexual orientation contributed to his downfall.

  Jackson had used the story in his Public Opinion and Pressure Groups course as an example of homophobia in the media, a fact he was sure Mitchell wouldn’t appreciate. To Jackson, it had been a series of news stories to exploit in a lecture. For Mitchell, it was his private life, exposed to the entire world on the biggest stage in sport. How disconcerting, to have everyone know your worst moments before you’d even been properly introduced.

  Jackson reached for a safe topic. “Do you enjoy coaching?”

  Mitchell seemed nonplussed. “I like helping kids navigate the balance between living to skate and loving to skate.”

  Given the obvious chip on Mitchell’s shoulder when he arrived and Jackson’s own unease at the not-so-subtle matchmaking attempt, he was surprised how easily their conversation flowed from there. Jackson was vaguely aware that Zach and Sam had returned to the table upon the arrival of Julian, Nick, and Tyler. Marcus came and went a few times, asking Julian about his latest fashion show and possessively wrapping his arm around Tyler when some other guy approached him. They all seemed to fade into the overall buzz of the club as he continued talking to Mitchell.

  “How can you have been to Paris so many times without visiting the Louvre?”

  Mitchell’s eyebrows drew together. “I can tell you the location of every patch of practice ice within driving distance of the Eiffel Tower, but sightseeing wasn’t a priority.” He pulled his full lower lip into his mouth and got a gleam in his eyes. “I’d love to go back sometime as a tourist.”

  Jackson reached for his vodka cranberry and noticed they were once again alone at the table. Turning sideways in his chair to look out at the dance floor, he saw his friends all paired off with their partners. Zach caught his eye and nodded towards Mitchell with a smile. Jackson rolled his eyes. Two-by-two, indeed.

  “Dance with me.” Mitchell’s hand on his back startled him, filling him immediately with warmth. Followed by cold, hard reality as Mitchell’s words sank in.

  Jackson gestured at the polished ebony cane propped against the table. “I’m afraid this is more than a prop,” he said, staring down at the table. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Mitchell’s face, to see interest turn to aversion. Or even worse, to pity, like Zach and so many others.

  “I figured as much from the way you were fondling it when I first sat down. It’s a part of you.” Mitchell’s hand moved in small circles between Jackson’s shoulders. He froze in place to prevent himself from leaning into the touch. “But that’s not an answer. Do you want to dance?”

  * * *

  Tension rolled down Jackson’s spine as he allowed Mitchell to pull him to his feet. Fifteen months ago, he’d have been out on the floor within minutes of entering the club. Back then, he could rely on both legs to hold him up.

  “You won’t be needing this,” Mitchell said.

  He shivered as Mitchell’s fingers stroked over his palm, gently pulling the cane out of his grasp. He leaned it against the table, then grabbed Jackson’s hand.

  “I can’t wait to hold you in my arms.”

  Jackson let himself be enticed by the excitement in Mitchell’s eyes. The need to touch this man became a physical ache.

  Mitchell smiled as if he knew what Jackson was thinking. “C’mon, sexy. Let’s go dance before I change my mind and lead you to the nearest bathroom stall, instead.”

  Jackson groaned at the mental image of Mitchell on his knees taking Jackson’s cock into his mouth. “I don’t put out until the third date,” he teased.

  Mitchell’s eyes widened with surprise, and Jackson mentally kicked himself for destroying the mood. The oft-used silly—and not always accurate—line had escaped his mouth without thought. It’d been the same one that apparently sent Wallflower scrambling to throw his laptop into the nearest large body of water, and now Mitche
ll looked like he’d been shoved into a cold shower.

  Mitchell shook his head as if clearing away dark thoughts. “Let’s dance first and negotiate the terms of your surrender later,” he interrupted with a leer.

  Oh god, he’d missed feeling sexy. Flirting. Wanting. He felt a hundred pairs of eyes judging him with disgust and pity, but he refused to let them steal this from him. Still, he tried to minimize his limp.

  Someone backed into him, causing him to stumble. Mitchell’s hand hovered near his elbow, leaving it up to Jackson if he wanted to complete the contact. “Some people need a back-up camera,” Mitchell murmured.

  Jackson usually rejected any help, finding that it came at the cost of his own agency. Mitchell’s casual care overrode Jackson’s hesitation. He offered rather than presumed. Jackson fought to keep in check another wave of lust. He was thrilled to rediscover his sex drive, but he didn’t want to lead his way to the dance floor with his dick.

  Guys jumped and twisted all around them to the electro dance beat, but the loud music didn’t seem to matter to Mitchell. He lifted Jackson’s arms to wrap around his shoulders and started swaying to his own rhythm. It took Jackson a moment to match it, but with Mitchell holding him steady and keeping some of the weight off his left leg, all he had to do was follow his movements. As his trust grew and his body relaxed, Mitchell picked up the pace until they moved with the music. Maybe a bit more subdued than some of the dancers gyrating their way around the others. But they were dancing.

  Fuck Wallflower. Even if the guy had jumped at the bait, their online chat could never compare to being in the arms of this flesh-and-blood man. He’d lied to Wallflower about having a hot date to cover for his lapse in judgment, but his prevarication was turning out to be prophetic. Mitchell’s attention soothed the hurt of Wallflower’s rejection, and then some.

  One song flowed into the next. “Turn around,” Mitchell whispered in his ear, raising goosebumps down his neck and sending a thrill straight to his cock.

  He pivoted in Mitchell’s arms and felt his hard cock press against his ass. He leaned back, trusting Mitchell with some of his weight.

  “Good?” he asked.

  Jackson nodded. So good. Mitchell lowered his hands, his long fingers low on Jackson’s abs. Nearby, Zach nudged Sam, and they both stared at him in surprise. Reality had no place here, so he closed his eyes, focusing only on Mitchell’s body pressed against him. Without his sight, he became more aware of the smell of sweat and cologne and lust from the crush of men around them. His breath slowed to match Mitchell’s. Their hips rolled together, and he let himself be turned on by the heat and the music and the promise of Mitchell’s hands inching closer to the place where he most wanted to feel his touch. He tilted his head back to hone in on Mitchell’s scent, an exhilarating combination of spices. He’d missed this. So. Damn. Much.

  Mitchell nuzzled his neck and brought his hand up to Jackson’s chest, pulling them even closer together. Jackson changed his center of gravity and turned his head, hoping to meet Mitchell’s lips with his own. Instead, white heat radiated from his knee to his groin. As his cock deflated from the shock of pain, the rest of his body stiffened. Mitchell spun Jackson to face him, causing another jolt that made him gasp. But then Mitchell wrapped his arms around him tightly, taking the weight completely off Jackson’s weak leg.

  “Maybe too much of a good thing.” The guilt in Mitchell’s voice hurt almost as much as Jackson’s knee.

  “One more minute. I’m not ready for this to end.” For a short time, he’d felt whole again.

  “Okay.” Mitchell took him at his word and tucked his head into Jackson’s neck, swaying in the middle of the dance floor. Just like that, Jackson felt seen and heard in a way he hadn’t in more than a year.

  He rubbed his chin over the side of Mitchell’s head, their combined stubble creating a friction he wished other parts of his body could enjoy. His knee continued to throb, though. If he didn’t sit down soon, he wouldn’t be able to walk out of Sparks under his own power, cane or no cane. He reluctantly pulled away and made his way back to their table. He ran his hand up and down his thigh while Mitchell braved the crowd at the bar and returned with two drinks.

  “You’re going to pay for this tomorrow, but man, that was fun.” Mitchell toasted him. Sweat glistened along his hairline, and his eyes sparkled even in the club lighting.

  “You’re not even going to ask, are you?”

  “Not unless you want to talk about it. There are far more interesting things about you.” Mitchell ran a finger over Jackson’s lips.

  “Baseball injury,” Jackson blurted. Not the entire truth but not a lie.

  Mitchell’s eyes cleared from their lustful haze as he gave a bark of laughter. “College campus by day, Yankee Stadium by night?”

  “I’m a man of many skills.”

  “I’d love to see your other areas of expertise.”

  Mitchell’s lips stole Jackson’s response. The kiss turned from a gentle brush of lips to fiery demand in the space of a single breath. Jackson leaned in from his seat, wishing they had done this on the dance floor when their bodies could press together. He had to content himself with Mitchell’s tongue outlining his lips, asking for entrance, and his fingers skimming up and down his arm.

  “Want to take this somewhere else?” Mitchell breathed against Jackson’s neck.

  Jackson wanted more with this man than a quick blowjob in an empty stall. “My place?”

  Mitchell stiffened. Maybe he had been proposing a quick trip to the bathroom. “We can do that,” he said, but his hesitation was palpable, and he pulled away until he held Jackson at arm’s length. “Let’s go.”

  Something no longer felt right. But Mitchell handed him his cane and started to lead the way to the front of the club.

  Jackson grabbed Mitchell’s arm. “Wait. If I misread this…”

  “You guys leaving already?” Marcus’s voice was filled with smug satisfaction as he invaded their space, putting his arm around Mitchell’s shoulder. Jackson saw Mitchell stiffen, and he knew in that instant, their moment had passed.

  “Yeah,” Mitchell mumbled. “I need to jump. I’m giving a lesson at five in the morning. Thanks for the invite tonight.” Mitchell slid from under Marcus’s arm. He looked briefly in the direction of Jackson’s ear, avoiding eye contact. “Nice meeting you, man.”

  Mitchell bolted for the exit, racing past Tyler with barely a nod of goodbye.

  Tyler’s eyebrows tightened in confusion as he took Mitchell’s place at Marcus’s side. “You’re not leaving with him? I thought you two were starting something.”

  So had Jackson. “I guess we skipped ahead to the end.”

  * * *

  To Doc1984: How was your date?

  Jackson covered himself with a top sheet out of habit, even though he’d kick it off long before morning. He felt the results of his multiple surgeries every minute of the day; he didn’t need to see the scars. He snagged his phone from the nightstand and replied to the message Wallflower had sent an hour earlier.

  To Wallflower: Does our relationship extend to descriptions of our sexual encounters?

  To Doc1984: I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.

  Jackson reread the message twice. Not for lack of trying on his part, if their earlier conversation had gone differently, they could very well be playing show-and-tell right now. All he’d have to do is throw aside the thin sheet and snap a photo of his nude body. Above the scars, of course.

  Instead, he’d gone out and met Mitchell. How to describe his night? It was wonderful… right up until it wasn’t.

  To Wallflower: I think I already showed you mine today. It seemed to scare you off.

  To Doc1984: I was digging up a magnifying glass. You left before I could find it.

  To Wallflower: You should get your eyes checked.

  To Doc1984: Oh? Do we think much of ourselves?

  No, we really didn’t. He’d been rejected twice tonight, once by
the very person he was chatting with now.

  To Wallflower: I’m not up for word games tonight.

  To Doc1984: I believe you’re the one who started this *game*. I’m just trying to figure out the rules.

  Ah, that explained the sudden turnaround. Jackson had changed the rules of engagement with his messages earlier, and Wallflower’s competitive nature demanded he solve the riddle and come out on top.

  To Wallflower: Don’t strain yourself. Tomorrow you’ll be back to trolling about coffee creamer while I expound on the dangers of isolationism. No emoji in sight.

  To Doc1984: According to my clock, it’s already tomorrow. Your time zone may vary.

  To Wallflower: Much as I hate to concede a single point to you, you’re right.

  To Doc1984: Think I can get the Topical mods to post your forthcoming concession speech on the front page?

  To Wallflower: You go work on that. I’m going to sleep off the sour taste in my mouth.

  To Doc1984: Is that from admitting I’m right, or are we back to talking about your date? You’re talking to me instead of fucking, so if this was magic night number three, it couldn’t have been too magical.

  Jackson plugged his phone into the charger and rolled over in bed. Let Wallflower be the one left hanging this time, the jackass.

  Never mind three dates, it hadn’t taken more than three hours to be willing to drop to his knees for Mitchell. He’d thought the feeling was mutual. But the guy was a celebrity, of sorts, and could’ve had his pick of any guy in the club. Maybe the whole thing had been manipulated by Zach and Marcus, after all, and he’d only been able to feign interest for so long. But the way they’d danced—the way they’d kissed—there had to be more to it than that.

  Right now, all he knew for sure was that he’d rather spend the rest of the night dreaming about the real-life guy who gave him the most intense kiss of his life than exchanging innuendo with the virtual guy who just wanted to push his buttons.