Page 1 of Straight to You

RYDER

“ Y ou make me feel so good, baby.” My voice is breathy, and I add a little grunt for good measure to sell the moment. “Oh, fuck . I can’t wait to get my cock inside your tight little hole.”

I pause for a second to make sure the words land with the right kind of heat.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from narrating romance novels, it’s that the more I immerse myself in the scene, the more it connects. I’ve been narrating audiobooks for years now—mostly gay romance novels, which tends to surprise people since I’ve always identified as straight.

When I was first getting started after college, I’d take any job I could, but the first time I had a request to do a queer romance novel, something clicked for me. That one job turned into more, and now it pretty much fills my entire calendar, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Love is love, and I love this genre. There’s so much tension and vulnerability, and the sex scenes are always fun to record. Let’s just say I’ve learned a lot about what you can do with two dicks over the years.

When people ask what I do, I always keep it simple; I’m an audiobook narrator. But if they ask for specifics, I tell them—and it almost always leads to the inevitable question: “So…are you gay?” Like, my sexuality is something I owe strangers.

I’ve never understood why people feel so entitled to that answer. As if who I’m attracted to somehow affects how well I can do my job. But honestly? Their opinion of me and what I do isn’t my problem or my business.

All that matters to me is doing these stories justice and, hopefully, helping readers connect more deeply with themselves.

I glance at the time and realize I should probably call it a night. My focus isn’t where it needs to be, and if I do this scene half-distracted, the delivery won’t land, and I’ll end up having to redo it tomorrow.

Plus, I’m already late to meet Logan.

Logan’s been my best friend since we met freshman year in college, and no one loves to give me shit more than he does.

But for all his relentless teasing, he’s also my fiercest defender.

Logan is bi, so if anyone so much as breathes a negative word about my career, his hackles instantly go up.

It’s only happened twice, but both times he shut the conversation down so fast, the people in question were practically tripping over themselves apologizing, swearing up and down they weren’t homophobic—as if that somehow erased whatever ignorant joke they’d just made.

Of course, his protective streak doesn’t stop him from giving me shit every chance he gets.

Mainly about the fact that despite narrating steamy queer romance, I’ve never been with a man myself.

According to Logan, that means I’m ‘depriving myself of essential research.’ He always smirks like he knows something I don’t, which, frankly, is infuriating.

He’s also constantly on my ass about my complete inability to be on time for literally anything, which I know he’ll remind me of tonight.

I turn my mic off and shut my laptop before heading into my bedroom to grab a clean shirt and hoodie from the pile of folded laundry I have yet to put away, and decide the jeans I’m already wearing are good enough.

I brush my teeth, lather on deodorant, text Logan I’m leaving now, and grab my wallet and keys before heading out the door.

As usual, I make the six-minute drive to Logan’s apartment, park, and walk the rest of the way to the bar. We usually just meet there, mostly because of my habitual lateness. I always get caught up in recording, while Logan is ready to socialize and grab a beer the second he leaves the office.

Before I know it, I see the familiar neon Pine Bar sign. The green ‘N’ occasionally sputters out, but that only adds to its charm. It also makes me chuckle because at this point, they really should serve pie.

As soon as I walk in, I catch Mia’s eyes behind the bar and give her a wave.

Mia is the unofficial queen of Pine Bar; there’s no way this place could function without her.

She’s also a complete badass who always wears her signature red bandana over her dark curls.

I swear I’ve never seen her without it. She waves back at me as I make my way over to Logan, who’s waiting for me in our usual spot.

If I could describe Pine Bar in a word, it’d be eclectic.

There are antique amber sconces mounted on the walls, mixed with posters and local sports memorabilia.

It has a very ‘locals-only’ vibe that’s familiar to us.

There’s also an ancient jukebox in the corner that somehow still works, and the place holds the faint scent of smoke from the wood-burning stove that’s tucked into the back corner of the restaurant.

Logan looks up as I make my way to him and smirks. He’s got a half-empty pint glass in front of him, and another full one waiting for me.

“You’re late,” he says, as expected, kicking the chair out for me on the opposite side of the table. “What’s the excuse this time? Wait, wait, let me guess. You got all hot and bothered narrating again? Got lost in the moment?”

I snort, reaching for the beer he ordered for me. “You say that like you don’t swoon over the same scenes when you read them.”

“Guilty as charged,” he laughs. “What can I say? Good writing is good writing, and those authors write damn good books.”

I smirk into my glass, shaking my head. “You ever gonna give up on ribbing me about being late and just let me show up when I show up?”

Logan shrugs. “Probably not, I like watching your panic texts roll in. It’s my form of entertainment before you get here.”

“I don’t panic-text.”

“ Dude .” He sets his beer down and holds up his phone. “Shit, leaving now! Five mins! Okay, actually leaving now for real.” He grins at me like he’s waiting for a reaction. “You realize I see you typing before you even hit send, right?”

“Maybe I just want to build suspense.”

“Uh-huh.” He chuckles. “You’re basically the unreliable narrator of your own commute. Good thing you don’t get paid for that.”

I laugh, shaking my head at him. This right here is why he’s my best friend. The easy back-and-forth, the teasing, the way he knows exactly what to say to get under my skin, but never pushes too far. It’s familiar and comfortable in a way I can’t put into words.

I look around the bar to see who else we know here, and I immediately regret it when my eyes find Pete’s.

“Logan! Ryder! You’re up next. I need some real competition,” Pete calls out, pointing dramatically at us with a dart in hand.

That man loves darts. He’s here every night just to play, and he always beats everyone who dares compete with him.

I’ve played a few times to appease him, but most nights I try to stick to talking to Logan instead of getting my ass handed to me.

Logan shakes his head, setting his glass down. “Not happening. My hands are for designing, not darts.”

I grin, leaning forward. “You sure that’s what your hands are for?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Logan shoots back with a wink. “Plus, watching you embarrass yourself is way more entertaining. Go on now. Pete’s waiting.”

Mia chimes in as she slides a beer to a guy in flannel. “If you two spent half as much time playing as you do running your mouths, Pete might actually have some competition around here.”

“Exactly!” Pete shouts, loud enough to make a few heads turn.

“We’re good tonight, man. Maybe next time,” I call back.

“I’m holding you to that!” Pete yells, smiling as he turns back to the board .

When I turn back to face Logan, he starts talking about work and decompressing from his week. Every time he complains about his job as a graphic designer for a local company, it sounds like hell to me. I guess you don’t naturally decompress by talking about the good, easy-going clients, though.

“She told me she wanted a logo that was approachable yet exclusive ,” Logan grumbles. “Explain that to me, Ryder. How can something be both? It’s like saying, make it hot, but cold at the same time .”

“Sounds like a winning brand strategy to me,” I declare to rile him up.

“Shut up. You’re lucky your audience doesn’t get to tell you how to sound,” Logan reasons, pointing his beer at me.

I smirk, leaning back in my chair. “That’s because I already give my audience exactly what they want. The personalized fan mail and five-star reviews prove it.”

Logan rolls his eyes. “How could I forget, you’re just out here stealing hearts through a microphone.”

“Damn right I am,” I smirk. “And yours was free before I ever hit record.”

He groans. “I set myself up for that one.”

“Sure did.” I wink at him—mostly for the bit, but also because this is just how we are.

We’ve always had this kind of easy banter. Maybe it’s just the years of friendship. Or maybe it’s because Logan’s bi and doesn’t seem to mind it when I toe the line between teasing and flirting. It’s never serious—we both know that—but it makes the playful back-and-forth more fun.

Logan drains the last of his beer before waving Mia over for another round. I let my gaze wander around the room again to see who else is here while we wait, and that’s when they land on a guy at the end of the bar I’ve never seen before.

He looks a little older than us, in his thirties, with dark hair that’s clean cut, wearing a worn-in leather jacket.

The thing that really catches my attention, though, is that his dark gaze is locked right on me.

It’s not a passing glance, either. His eyes seem to linger on me, and he doesn’t look away when he notices I’m looking back at him.

Most people would break eye contact the second they’re caught staring, but he seems unfazed, and something about it feels off.

Strange enough to make my skin prickle and for discomfort to set in.

“Earth to Ryder,” Logan sighs, nudging my foot under the table. “You good?”

I look away from the man at the bar and turn back to him, shaking off whatever that just was. “Yeah, sorry. Zoned out for a second.”

He looks at me for a beat longer than usual, like he’s making sure I’m truly okay, but drops it a moment later. “Don’t scare me like that, man. You’re the only one who listens when I spiral about work shit.”

I open my mouth, but before I can say anything, Mia appears with two fresh pints.

“Another round for the dynamic duo,” she says, sliding the glasses onto the table.

“Thanks, Mia.” Logan grins, nudging one toward me. “Maybe now he’ll focus.”

“My bad,” I mutter, giving him a faint smile as I lift the glass. “Cheers.”

I try to focus on the drink in my hand and what Logan is saying, but it’s so hard because I can’t ignore the feeling of someone staring at me. It feels like this guy’s eyes are burning a hole into the side of my head .

Ignore it, don’t look at the guy who’s obsessively staring. Does he not understand social cues? I mean, seriously, dude.

But after a few more seconds of pretending I’m not hyper-aware of the feeling, I give in. And sure enough, his eyes are right where I predicted—on me. And once again, he doesn’t pretend to look away; he just holds my gaze.