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  According to my profile, I’m looking to chat, date, make friends, hook up right now, and find a relationship. My tribe, whatever the fuck that means, is apparently Jock. They have some other information filled out, but not all of it is accurate. They were right that I’m HIV negative, regularly tested, and on PrEP – though I’m slightly worried how they knew that… - but they were wrong when putting that I’m a strict top. I’m actually fairly versatile. Or, I was before. I haven’t bottomed since Chris.

  Not that it matters if the profile is accurate, I remind myself. I only promised to message one person and then I can be done with this shit.

  Hell, I could message the ass picture guy back with a polite No thanks and call it good. Or strike up a conversation with the more normal guy.

  I don’t message either of them, though. I don’t message anyone, in fact.

  Instead, I find myself adding something to my profile. Something important. Perhaps the most important of all.

  Just in case.

  Chapter Four

  Owen

  I’m halfway through the Saturday rehearsal for my play when the school’s principal walks into the auditorium wearing his ever-present frown. My gut twists at the sight of him. Principal Doyle has been on a warpath this past month. The school’s budget renews in June, and he’s making cuts. As is typical for public schools, he’s zeroed in on the arts.

  “Principal Doyle,” I say respectfully when he stops beside me. I study him as he watches the rehearsal, fighting the urge to wince as every agonizing second ticks by. He doesn’t look impressed in the least. “Can I help you with anything?”

  “Mmm.” His eyes narrow on my lead actress as she stumbles through her soliloquy. It’s the one scene she has a hard time with. Of course, that’d be when he comes snooping around. “How are ticket sales coming along?”

  He would know, considering his office is where they’re sold. “A lot of people buy their ticket at the door.”

  “Right. It’s not like these things ever sell out. I suppose there’s no rush.”

  I take in a slow, deep breath to calm myself. “I’m confident we’ll do well.”

  He makes a noise in his throat. “Let’s hope you’re correct. Right now, I’m sorry to say I’m not convinced your program should be taken off the chopping block.”

  “I have a good feeling, sir,” I say with what I hope sounds like confidence.

  “That makes one of us.”

  “I appreciate the opportunity to convince you.”

  He gives me a patronizing pat on the arm and walks away, giving my students a final dirty look over his shoulder just before exiting the theatre.

  “Everything okay, Mr. T?” my stage manager, Tommy, asks.

  “Everything is fine.” I shove my hands into my pants pockets and paste on the best smile I can muster. “Everything is just fine.”

  ****

  “Everything sucks,” I inform my best friend, Jeremy, as he pours me another glass of wine.

  “To things sucking.” He lifts his own glass and clinks it against the side of mine, winking at me. “Just keep drinking. Everything sucks much less once drunk.”

  “Funny. I could’ve sworn you suck more when you’re drunk,” I tease.

  Jeremy gives me his signature bitch face. “I am no longer a clubbing gay who likes random blowjobs, okay?”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m mature now. I’m 30, remember?”

  “How could I possibly forget? You insisted we spend the entire month of March celebrating.” I roll my eyes, though fondly. “So, what, you turn 30 and swear off sucking things?”

  Jeremy’s bitch face grows in intensity. “Don’t be silly. I just don’t get drunk at the clubs before doing it. I use my handy app instead.”

  “Ah, yes. Grindr.” I wrinkle my nose. He convinced me to make an account a few months ago. Considering I suck at hooking up with no emotional strings attached, I haven’t used it. “And how has Grindr been treating you?”

  “Very well, in fact.” Jeremy taps on his phone before turning the device towards me. It’s a picture of a large, shirtless man with defined muscles and stark black tattoos, some sort of necklace hanging around his neck. He’s wearing a backwards cap and sunglasses. He looks vaguely familiar. Before I can make sense of it, Jeremy solves the mystery for me. “Someone at your hot neighbor’s house is on here.”

  I swear, my eyes must bulge. “No fucking way.”

  “That’s him, isn’t it? He’s big like that.” Jeremy would know. He gawks openly at the man whenever he’s around, especially if he’s in his running clothes. He’s even gotten Caleb to toss a flirty comment or two back at him, and he usually gets the grumpy man’s lips to twist into a reluctant smile. Jeremy nudges me, wiggling his eyebrows. “I should say hi, don’t you think?”

  “No. No, I do not think.”

  “One of us should,” he says, like it’s a goddamn dare.

  My heart starts to race. Not at the thought of messaging Caleb, but at the thought that Jeremy might.

  Jeremy takes a sip of his wine, then shrugs. “I’m going for it. What’s the worst that can happen?”

  “No!” I immediately blush after shouting, realizing that was extremely dramatic. His smirk is knowing. I can’t look at him as I mumble, “I’ll do it.”

  “Better get on that, then.”

  “This is juvenile, you know that, right?”

  “Using a hookup app?”

  I roll my eyes, my hands slightly shaking as I log into my profile. “Not that. You practically challenging me to message him like we’re teenagers with crushes at a sleepover.”

  “I mean, I didn’t challenge you. I just told you that if you don’t seize the opportunity that I will.”

  “I hate you.”

  “You love me.” He makes a noise. “Oh, look. He’s regularly tested, HIV negative, and on PrEP. Perfect.”

  None of that surprises me. He seems like the kind of man who’s very responsible about things. When the app loads, I see I have quite a few messages that have piled up since the last time I bothered with this thing. I ignore them all in favor of tracking down Caleb’s profile. Jeremy continues reading details as I look. “6’4, 230 pounds, white, athletic-”

  “He’s my neighbor, Jere. I pretty much figured all that out.”

  “He’s my neighbor, Jere. I pretty much figured all that out,” he mimics in an annoying voice, making a face. Then he continues reading the profile like I hadn’t just complained. “He/him pronouns. Ooo, he’s a top! Which is a good thing for both of us. Single – also good. And obviously queer. We were wondering.”

  I choose my neighbor’s profile. There are only two words written across the bottom of his picture. No kissing. I frown. He wouldn’t be the first man to set a rule like that. Many guys like to avoid intimacy when hooking up. I suppose it doesn’t surprise me that the grump next door is that type. I don’t know why I’m so disappointed, though. It’s not like he’d ever want to be with me in any capacity, kissing or not. He fucking hates me.

  But, as always, I can still appreciate the view.

  I double-tap his profile picture to look at it closer. He’s so damn good looking, it’s unfair. Huge muscles, but with a frame to match so he’s not left looking like some overstuffed bodybuilder. Defined stomach. A broad chest. Tattoos that I could spend hours in bed tracing with my fingers, or maybe my tongue.

  “Seems like he’s open to pretty much anything. Chatting, hooking up, relationships. Those are all good things,” Jeremy muses. “Doesn’t say where he’d like to meet, but that’s not a problem for the two of you. Your place or mine isn’t much of a choice when you’re neighbors.”

  “Stop talking,” I beg. I pull up the chat function. “What should I say?”

  There’s a long pause. When I look up at him, he’s just staring at me. I stare back. Then I sigh. “I told you to stop talking.”

  He presents his hands as if to say, Yup, so now I’m not talking.

&nb
sp; “I need more wine.” I put my phone down and head to the kitchen, grabbing us a second bottle. When I return with it uncorked, I find my best friend with my phone in his hands. My stomach drops. “Jeremy… please, please, please tell me you didn’t message him for me.”

  He not-so-nonchalantly puts the phone down on the coffee table. Then he grabs his wine glass and looks off to the side with raised eyebrows, as if he didn’t hear me and doesn’t know a thing. I consider just drinking wine straight from the bottle. It’d probably help with whatever ridiculousness Jeremy just got me into. The manners my mother ingrained in me unfortunately make me pour the liquid into my mostly empty glass instead, but I counteract that by taking two huge gulps before sitting on the couch and retrieving the phone. I treat it like a bomb, not sure I’ll survive whatever I find.

  Me: Fancy seeing you here, neighbor (;

  “Oh god.” I sink back, staring at the chat box. “That was so cheesy. Did you have to put a damn wink face?”

  “I mean, if it had been me, I would’ve sent something along the lines of, Hey, you look like you have a fantastic cock, you should come give it to me.” He shrugs. “But I figured you’d prefer something more subtle.”

  I suppose when that’s taken into account, what he sent wasn’t so bad after all…

  “I can’t decide what I want,” I mumble. “Him to ignore it, or him to answer.”

  “Answer, duh.”

  “Weren’t we going to watch The Bachelorette?” I ask, deciding it’d be best to change the subject. “I could have sworn we were going to watch The Bachelorette.”

  Jeremy smirks. “We can do that, sure. But the damage is done. Turning The Bachelorette on isn’t going to erase the message.”

  Ignoring him, I reach for the remote and pull up my queue, choosing the episode where we left off our last Wine&Whine night.

  When I look back at my phone, he’s answered.

  “Oh god.” I squeeze my eyes shut without reading it, dropping my phone to my lap like it’s on fire. “I can’t.”

  Jeremy scoffs. “I can.”

  “No!” I snap my eyes back open just in time to save my phone from his greedy hands. “You’ve done enough!”

  He waves a hand at me. “Read it!”

  I take a deep breath like I’m about to plunge underwater. Then I look.

  Caleb: Fancy indeed. Don’t you already have someone for the night?

  After reading it twice, I realize he means Jeremy. He must have seen him come over. Or just figured it out by seeing his car parked in my driveway.

  “What did he say?”

  “He asked about you being here.”

  “Ooo.” Jeremy wiggles his eyebrows. “Someone jealous?”

  Deciding to be brave, I send exactly that.

  Me: Someone jealous?

  He responds much faster this time. Two messages, back-to-back.

  Caleb: Not at all.

  Caleb: Is it the same man from last weekend?

  It takes me a moment before I figure out what he’s talking about. My ex, Stefan, had driven me home from the bars last weekend. When we got to my house, he had gotten out of the car with me. We had kissed. It was a mistake, fueled by too much alcohol and loneliness. At least I was strong enough to turn down his request to spend the night. Though, the overwhelming loneliness after he was gone had drawn me out to the front porch to lament on my life and cry like an idiot, only to be caught by Caleb. I hadn’t realized he had seen the kissing too.

  Me: That was my ex. It was nothing.

  I pause, then decide to add more information.

  Me: It’s just my friend Jeremy here. We’re drinking wine and catching up on The Bachelorette.

  I regret the message immediately. He’s going to judge so hard.

  Sure enough…

  Caleb: Bachelorette, huh?

  Jeremy leans over, reading our messages. I ignore him.

  Me: Don’t judge. It’s perfect. We get to watch sexy, shirtless men while also ripping them apart for being toxic masculine assholes. It’s very therapeutic.

  “Amen to that,” Jeremy mumbles.

  “Jeremy, space please.”

  He huffs dramatically, but scoots a few inches away from me. I turn my focus back to Caleb.

  Caleb: I think we have different ideas of what’s therapeutic, but to each their own.

  Me: What do you consider therapeutic then?

  He takes a minute to answer. Then another. My stomach twists with nerves. “Is it rude to ask him what he thinks is therapeutic?”

  “No. It’s not like you’re asking him if he goes to legitimate therapy or something. It’s basically just asking him how he likes to unwind.”

  I sigh, staring daggers at my phone screen. I intimidate it enough to give me a message.

  Caleb: Running. Working out. A good beer and a game on TV.

  I make a face. Those are all terrible choices, in my opinion.

  Me: To each their own haha…

  “Oh, they’re fighting again!” Jeremy hits my arm. “Look!”

  I look up, groaning when I see the same two men that have been fighting for weeks now, at it yet again. “They might as well whip their dicks out and start to measure.”

  “Now that would be something I’d like to see.”

  I check my phone. Two messages from Caleb. I’m getting others, but I’ve been ignoring them. There’s a good chance they’re all either unsolicited ass or dick pics, or straightforward invites to cut to the chase and get together. I’m not interested in either tonight.

  Caleb: Your hair is different.

  Caleb: In your profile picture, I mean. It’s darker now.

  It’s such a silly thing, but I find myself blushing at the fact that he noticed. It’s not a huge difference. He’d have to really pay attention, wouldn’t he?

  Me: Yeah, my roots are starting to show now. I need to dye it again.

  Caleb: Roots. Yeah. The dark stuff by your forehead.

  Caleb: It looks good. I mean, it looked good before, but it looks good now too. I like it.

  I’m fairly certain I’m blushing, like, down to my fucking toes.

  Me: Well, thanks. I like yours too, I suppose.

  “You are bright fucking red,” Jeremy points out unhelpfully. “Did he send a naked pic? Oh my god, let me see!”

  I bat Jeremy’s hand away. “Shut up. I want to read his new message.”

  Caleb: Thanks. Grew it myself. Took a lot of work.

  “He’s funny,” I inform Jeremy. I’m pretty sure I’m smiling like an idiot. “I never thought he’d be funny.”

  Jeremy just sighs heavily. “Oh. Boring. I was really hoping you were getting pics.”

  I roll my eyes, ignoring him.

  Me: I bet.

  After a moment of nervous overthinking, I decide to take the plunge and send him a question I’m really hoping I like the answer to.

  Me: So, what are you hoping to get out of this app tonight?

  “Still no pics?”

  “Nope. And I wouldn’t show you anyway, so stop asking,” I grumble, not looking away from the phone screen so that I don’t miss the next message.

  Except, the next message never comes.

  Chapter Five

  Fitz

  After spending my day combing through VICAP for murders that match our victimology and MO – suffocation with something fibrous, most likely a pillow, according to the medical examiner’s report, consoling Joey’s mother as she begged me over and over to find her son’s killer, and staring at a Polaroid picture that still isn’t providing any fucking help, I pack up my things and head home. My shoulder is sore and aching, my head feels ready to split in two, and I’m fucking starving because I skipped lunch in favor of looking into the second list of names Joey’s mother gave me of people that her son didn’t get along with. It was a waste of time, of course. Story of my fucking life these past few months when it comes to my job.

  By the time I make it through the front door of my house, all
I want is Tylenol, pizza, a cold beer, and tonight’s playoff hockey game. A nice relaxing evening after a long ass day.

  Someone knocks on my door just as I kick my feet up and grab the remote. I stare down at the beer in my hand, debating ignoring whoever it is. Huck, Olly, and Abel have the code to my security system. Anyone in my family always calls or texts ahead of time. So, the person trying to ruin my evening isn’t on my list of important people. I have no obligation to answer.

  The knocking comes again. Frantic, almost.

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath, mourning the night I had planned for myself. The Tylenol that had just started to kick in is already fading.

  More. Fucking. Knocking.

  “Yeah!” I yell, needing whoever the hell it is to fucking stop. “I’m coming!”

  The person finally stops knocking. I still hurry over to the door, not wanting to risk them running out of patience and picking it back up again.

  The moment I see my neighbor’s stupidly gorgeous face, I know I should slam the door shut in it. The issue isn’t even so much that I find him an annoying pain in the ass. It’s that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him since messaging him Saturday night, and that has me freaking the fuck out. The man had made me smile hard enough to even get Abel to speak up, asking me who I was talking to. I had lied, heart racing as if I was caught doing something forbidden, and logged out of the app.

  I hadn’t deleted it, though. I couldn’t.

  And for some reason, I can’t get myself to close the door either. Or maybe not for some reason. Maybe I know the exact reason. My neighbor – Owen, according to his Grindr profile – is wearing a light pink sweater that’s falling off one shoulder and cropped above his belly button, revealing… so much skin. Lots of creamy, pale, pretty, pretty skin and – I swallow a moan, reminding myself to breathe – he’s wearing jean shorts that are just long enough to be considered decent, which leaves more creamy, pale, pretty, pretty, so fucking pretty skin. It’s all very, very… distracting. Unfairly distracting. And sexy. And – and I think I should close the door right now. Before I do something very, very stupid. Like invite him inside to fuck him. Hard.