Page 3 of Sucker Love (Sugar Pill Duet #1)

LUCA

My face is burning with humiliation as I push my way through the crowd and out into the vestibule.

The young guy at the coat check gives me an odd look at the urgency with which I ask for my things.

Probably wondering if something happened, or it could be my imagination and he doesn’t give a shit.

Maybe his face always looks like that, crumpled and sort of pinched, as he fetches my jacket.

It’s not like he asks me if something is wrong and I don’t offer because what’s there to say?

That the gorgeous boy I was trying to take home up and left me hanging? Get real.

It was too much, too soon anyway.

There is a light snow falling by the time I traipse back to my hotel suite, where the sum total of my current existence is crammed.

After Demi and I agreed to separate, I packed what I could in the back of my truck and simply left—no arguments.

She said I didn’t have to, that we could wait until everything was settled and finalized, but I declined.

For some reason, I just couldn’t stay a second longer. The jig was well and truly up.

And it’s not like I plan on fighting for it anyway, our little house in Revere.

Demi has already agreed to buy me out. As a high-powered financial analyst, she has always been the breadwinner in our relationship, and she’s the one who wants to live near the beach, anyway.

I would’ve been happier anywhere else. The mountains, preferably, either White or Green, but there aren’t too many people looking for tattoos up that way.

It’s funny in a way, because it’s not like I didn’t see this coming. It’s even sort of my fault, too. Had I really been in love with her when I got married, or just the idea of her and what she could offer me? A nice Greek girl and a big Greek wedding that made both of our families oh-so-happy.

And I do like Demi a lot. She is beautiful, smart, successful.

She is safe. When I was with her, I didn’t have to confront the reality of my sexuality—the fact that I liked and even preferred men—because I knew my dad would never accept that.

Learned that in an exceptionally hard way, when my dad walked in on me with my old boyfriend.

Shortly after that disaster, I was introduced to Demi; our fathers were old friends.

Everything was supposed to be perfect after that.

I would be the perfect husband. I even dropped my circle of queer friends to sufficiently dedicate myself to this role.

But it was impossible to ignore the disconnect that only grew with every passing year, the gap between intimacy and sex until our bedroom was in its death throes.

I knew as well as she did there was something missing from our relationship and there always had been.

It got more obvious as time wore on, some essential spark or passion that failed to ever truly ignite.

The idea that maybe our marriage was a mistake was panic-inducing.

Couldn’t imagine throwing away seven years just because things were staler than they should’ve been.

I tried to ignore it, though. I would’ve gone on that way forever.

I swallowed it all back every single day, the things I wanted and needed, and I was pretty damn effective at it.

It never affected my quality of life, as far as I was concerned.

Not meaningfully. Not enough for me to want to change anything.

It didn’t affect my work. Didn’t affect my contentment, at least not much.

I had a beautiful home, a beautiful wife I loved, and if not romantically, then at least like the best of friends.

We had fun together. We laughed together.

We could talk about anything, except for the one thing neither of us were getting or feeling.

But was that such a big deal? We could both live with it, couldn’t we?

Well, no. One week after the New Year, concluding one more disastrous attempt at resuscitating our sex life, my wife rolled over and asked, “Luca, are you gay?”

Some spluttering explanation I gave: yes, no, maybe so ?

Bi, with a preference for men sounded safer, more appealing, more forgivable.

It was especially insane to have that conversation while she laid naked beside me, looking every inch a model, all tanned and tattooed with her long hair draping her gorgeous body.

It’s almost impossible to think that anyone could not be attracted to her, regardless of sexuality, because she is so damn beautiful—yet my dick had never been more disinterested.

In the end, the truth came out because she already knew and it was just a matter of me admitting to it. Yes, I think I’m gay. Yes, I married you knowing I’m gay. I thought things would get better. I thought it was a phase.

Demi asked for a divorce, and I said yes.

There was nothing else I could do. It could either be a protracted and painful process, or swift and relatively easy.

I knew how badly she wanted a family, anyway, and I loved her enough that I couldn’t deny her happiness just to keep the status quo that I wasn’t even happy with.

There isn’t any point in that, no matter how much it fucks up everything for me.

So, with my life effectively going to pieces, why on earth was I hanging out in a gay fetish club on a Saturday night?

I heard about the place from a client last week while tattooing the word lust on his pelvis in Century Gothic (his idea, not mine).

He was telling me about this kink-friendly bar called Anathema and how it was different than the tired old venues with the same standoffish “cliquey gays” who ran rampant through Boston—his words.

I didn’t know why the fuck he was volunteering this because I haven’t told a soul about my separation, of course. Not at work or anything, and certainly not this stranger. He either had deadly accurate gaydar or was just excited to talk to a captive audience about it.

Regardless of intent, it piqued my attention, and I decided I’d treat myself and come out tonight.

I never thought I’d meet someone I wanted to hook up with.

It just seemed like an okay way to integrate back into a community I’ve cut myself off from for nearly a decade.

I have never, ever explored kink in any way, shape or form, but their website promised it was okay for newbies to show up too, so why not?

What could it hurt? It wasn’t like it was a real BDSM club, the kind where people tied each other up and whipped one another while others watched.

Well, I could get my fragile ego shattered. But I guess that’s just the nature of hooking up.

Fuck, is this my life now?

Maybe Noel just figured out I had no idea what I was doing.

Haven’t had sex with another man in about ten years and I certainly didn’t know how to have kinky sadistic sex with a man.

I figure that must be what he’s into if he’s hanging out at a place like that.

The only pain I know how to bring is with a tattoo gun, and most people bitch and moan about that part.

Will it hurt? It’s a needle puncturing your skin hundreds of times a minute . Of course it’s going to hurt.

Or maybe he realized I’m too old for him?

Not that thirty-one is ancient, but I mean, the kid didn’t even know who Placebo was.

He called them an old band , so he must be pretty young.

Hearing that made me feel like that scene in Saving Private Ryan where Matt Damon ages fifty years in five seconds. Old band—fuck me.

I run my hotel keycard and let myself into my room.

The TV plays some old 80s sitcom at low volume.

My eight-year-old greyhound, Amelia, beats her tail from the center of the bed as I enter, but otherwise doesn’t move.

She’s a retired racer I adopted back before getting married, and the laziest dog I’ve ever known.

True to the old adage about greyhounds, she is, in fact, the world’s fastest couch potato, and there is no place she’s happier than the center of a mattress.

I clip a leash to her collar as I stuff bags into my coat. “C’mon, girl,” I say. “Let’s go for a quick walk.”

She grumbles as I put on her jacket. It’s a detestable thing to her, but also one she will not brave winter weather without.

I strap on her booties too—equally hated—and take her down the hall, into the elevator, and through the lobby.

The concierge can’t conceal her laugh as Amelia awkwardly stomps over the tile floor and out into the wide world, whereupon seeing the snow she stops dead in the doorway and is nearly crushed by the automatic doors.

I scoop her up and deposit her onto the sidewalk.

More grumbling as I virtually drag her down the street. “You think I wanna be out here, either?” I tell her. “Hurry up and pee.”

As Amelia at last meanders under her own power, the booties leaving their little tread in the light accumulation of snow on the pavement, my mind drifts back to the club.

To Noel. To the fact he really did just ghost me like I was some creep on a Tinder date and he had to bail before things got serious.

Of course I’m overthinking this, scrutinizing every single thing I could’ve done wrong. Was I a creep? Too forward?

Why the hell did I feel so bad about it?

I shouldn’t feel bad about it. We interacted for thirty minutes tops.

My attraction to him was fueled by pricy alcohol, loneliness and the fact that he bears some resemblance to one of my childhood crushes.

Nothing more or less. It was meaningless.

I shouldn’t be picking up twenty-somethings in bars, anyway. I’m not even divorced yet.

Luca, you’re a dumbass. You’ve been out of this game way too long.