Maybe it was his fault. Rory worked for years to cultivate that image, why shouldn’t David see what everyone else did? He might as well play the slutty part he’d been cast in.
Hard up but no good options @ Tango’s. I might have groped his spicy sausage and don’t want to step on experimenting toes. You’re welcome.
He waited in the tense silence for a response to his passive aggressive accusation. Each second felt like a lifetime. When it finally came it was more unsettling than Rig’s confession.
Text me again when you’ve escaped the minion.
His shoulders drooped. That was it? No denial? No dirty comment about Rig’s sausage? No explanation?
Rory wanted to shrug it off and go back to staring blankly out the window, but this whole night had been…un-shrug-offable. Was that even a word?
Tango’s had been his first mistake. He hadn’t been to that meat market for months, but no one would know it from the looks he’d gotten when he walked in. The men who weren’t sidling up to suggest a bathroom quickie were shooting less-than-subtle mind bullets in his direction.
To be fair, he was pretty sure he deserved most of the glares. Say ninety percent. He had a long history of gluttonous behavior on his resume. The rest of the eyeball violence was just preemptive. Like his presence alone would somehow stop them from getting laid, just because Tango’s had a plaque on the wall with his face on it. One that said Most Satisfying Customer.
He used to be so proud of that damn thing, but tonight it felt like a bad joke at his expense. He wasn’t doing any satisfying lately, and he didn’t see that changing anytime soon.
Rory was on a cleanse.
Knowing that, he should have suggested the family pub where everybody knew him and rarely hit on him. Should have, but didn’t. Mistake or not, going to Finn’s these days was an entirely different type of torture.
Tantalus. The name swam through the soupy fog of bad liquor his brain had become. He vaguely remembered helping his partner Walter’s wife with a term paper on some Greek who had to spend eternity staring at the things he most wanted and being unable to touch them. That summed it up pretty damn well. It definitely described what Finn’s had become for him in the last few months.
His cousin Seamus—the guy everyone in the family thought was either asexual or a committed heterosexual prude—had snagged a lusty Turkish gazillionaire on his Ireland vacation. A sexy slab of accented beef that’d followed him home and proceeded to spoil the entire family rotten with gifts and attention. Especially Seamus. The single father who’d spent his life taking care of other people was practically incandescent with gay happiness every time Rory saw him.
Yet another “straight” man jumping the fence for love and anal. It was all so beautiful and life affirming that it gave him a headache.
The last few years had been the stuff of nightmares for the confirmed bachelors of the family. Rory in particular, but he’d seen womanizer Wyatt flinch more than once. In essence, the Finn Agains were increasing and the number of single Finns was dropping at an alarming rate.
All four cousins as well as his brother Brady had found their significant others. Life was a constant stream of proposals, gay weddings and babies and Rory couldn’t wrap his head around it. Hell, even Noah had a tiny new Finn on board—everyone but Seamus and Solomon were still in shock about that one.
Love was in the air, but though he still had four single brothers left, logic wasn’t really the theme of this pity party.
As usual, the theme is your dick. Because the world needs to stop if you aren’t getting any, right? Drama queen.
It wasn’t that he wasn’t getting any. It was that someone else was getting something he wanted. There was a difference. “So shut up.”
“What?” his driver asked, startled.
“Not talking to you and not throwing up. As you were, Justin.”
“My name isn’t— Whatever, dude.”
He was feeling a little queasy, but he’d be damned if he mentioned it now. He just wanted to get home, go to sleep and forget about his failed attempt at embracing the drunk Irish stereotype.
Rory never went to bars to get drunk. Drunk sex was bad sex as a rule and if he wasn’t going to the club to hook up then what was the fucking point? Tonight, however, the bartender had kept putting shots in front of him, and after the news he’d kept knocking them back without asking what they were.
Another bad decision.
Never fuck your bartender. At least, not if you don’t plan on remembering his name or calling him back after he leaves ten messages begging for more cock. It was clearly a recipe for death by alcohol poisoning.