Ace of Hearts

I scroll and start the video again. His TikTok only has 176 followers, which is batshit considering the amount of talent pouring through the speakers. That said we've got maybe six TikToks, tops.

This video is my favorite, though. It's an older one. He's sitting on his bed, his bed sloppily made as though he realized it was visible last minute. His phone has to be propped up on something like a book because the bottom of the video is shrouded.

He awkwardly, insofar as this man can even seem awkward, explains that this is his fourth attempt at this video, and picks up his guitar and just...plays it.

In his white tee shirt, jeans and bare feet, sitting next to a pile of laundry, he plays. He mouths the words to himself, and it's so endearing. At the end he looks up with his crooked smile and the phone falls over and that's it. That's the whole video. And I just keep watching it.

If it has 144 views I account for 99.

It's been four days since that dinner, and I know this because I've been painfully aware of every minute that I have not received a text. So, like any reasonable person, I am stalking the shit out of his online presence.

"Please tell me you're not doing what I think you are," Tara, my screen checking siren, plops down on the couch next to me. I mush into her.

"I am not doing what you think I am," I reply and swipe to the next video. Aw, he's reacting to kids playing music. I truly cannot stand him. I watch it again.

"You are, you're stalking--" Tara starts.

"Researching," I correct.

"

Stalking

Asa," she finishes.

"He's so pretty, I can't help it," I clutch my heart and bite my lip dramatically.

Tara slaps my arm, "I'm serious I don't want you giving him a hard time."

I grunt and ignore her. She rolls her eyes and turns on Netflix, tucking into my side.

I can't focus though. I'm stuck on this. My phone chirps and I scramble to check. I hate myself for it.

Veronica:

u never told me what u thought

Me: I

tell you what I think all the time rn im thinking about nachos

Veronica:

about asa dummy

Me:

like do i just microwave some quick n nasty or use the oven

Me:

im thinking microwave you know I get impatient

Veronica:

I hate u

I toss my phone on the coffee table and roll my neck. I can hear Veronica texting me again, but I don't feel like talking to her. What would I even say? Veronica, your boyfriend confused my peepee?

Actually, that might be worth her reaction.

I fully expected to have woken up the day after, chuckled heartily about my silly Man Envy, and moved the hell on.

Oh, Jonathan

, I'd have said to myself,

what a silly goose you are

! Yeah, a silly goose who spent his morning shower, head against the tile, jacking off to a dude. I can't even recognize myself.

It's stressing me the fuck out. I've half convinced myself that nothing happened and the other half of the time I'm thinking about how his breath felt against my lips and his hooded eyes and the peek of his tongue as he wet his lips right before he--

"FuUCK!" I growl in frustration, and Tara immediately looks up at me with concern.

"Baby, what's wrong?" She sits up. Her brows make the little crease she gets when she's worried. It's cute.

I scrub my hands down over my face. I need to go do something. Go somewhere. Anything but sit here.

"I don't know. I gotta go to work," I grumble, pushing myself up off the couch.

"Baby, it's Wednesday."

"I

know

." I snap.

Trust me. I know.

I huff and head into the bedroom to change. She's not wrong to be confused, I usually have Wednesdays off. Really she's done nothing to deserve my attitude. I'm losing my mind.

When I come out, Tara's sitting on the edge of the couch, squinting at me, like she can figure out what I'm thinking.

"What's wrong?" She says it more like a statement, and less like a question.

"Nothing, we're swamped and I want to get a head start." I look around for my work boots.

She actually laughs. "Nah, that's bullshit, you never go into work on your off day, you ain't like that."

Savage, but okay.

"Well, I am today," I sit in a kitchen chair and lace up my boots.

"What's wrong with you? You've been in a shit mood for days, don't give me this work bullshit, I know that ain't it," she presses, and I can hear her temper rising.

I pull my floppy curls back tight, and pull on my cap to grab any that might wanna fall out.

Tara switches tactics. "Baby, I can't help you if you don't tell me what's going on," she tries in a gentle tone, walking over to me to wrap her arms around my waist. I wrap my arms around her in return, and kiss the top of her head.

"I'll call you later?" I murmur into her hair.

She looks at me. I will her with all my might to leave it alone. She must see something in my eyes, because she does. She takes a step back and says nothing.

"I love you," I mutter.

She watches me go, and I leave her alone in my apartment to head to the shop.

"What the fuck are

you

doing here?" Frank, my boss, says around a cigarette. He's half shouting because the compressor is running in the garage behind him. It's not

that

weird that I'm here, Jesus.

"I need to get out of my house," I tell him. I feel a little guilty that I can be more honest with Frank than with Tara but Tara pushes and Frank doesn't.

He gives me a nod, squinting one eye to keep the smoke out.

"Well, how long do I have you? That Bimmer is back if you wanna bash your head against something."

"The 135i?" I'm the only guy in the shop who doesn't hate BMWs. Frank nods.

"What's wrong with it?"

"Heater core."

I take that back. We all hate BMWs.

"And all the other shit you'll inevitably find when you get in there." Frank stubs out his cigarette. "You don't have to, but I trust you. It's there if you want it."

I make a face. I don't, but if it's a distraction from my life I want, it sure as hell will do the job.

I spend the next 6 hours solid working on the fucking thing and by the time I left it still wasn't done due to a laundry list of bullshit I was grateful to not have to tell the customer about. Goal achieved.

When I check my phone I have ten missed texts; the one from Veronica from earlier, two from my roommate,

six

from Tara, and one from an unknown number with a Pennsylvania area code, two hours old.

I hold my breath and check it.

So, Sunday?

It says. I can't stop the giddy feeling that immediately rises up in my belly. Oh my God, I'm so lame.

That depends, who is this and are you hot

I know the answer to both of these questions. I'm just, as my roommate would say, a chore of a man.

The response is immediate.

Hm. I suppose that depends who you ask.

I feel sweat prickle on the back of my neck.

Who you are or whether you're hot?

I'm grinning so hard it hurts. I hate it.

Both.

And then immediately,

Kidding, It's asa

I know

, I reply.

Lol so Sunday?

I lick my lips which feel suddenly dry. My heart is thundering in my chest. What do I say?

After a minute, I type,

you really gonna make me wait that long,

and hit send before I can change my mind.

I see the text bubble show he's typing and then it's gone. It comes back, and then it's gone again. I chew on my lip. I should probably say that I'm joking this time, because I am, but I don't say anything, because I'm really not.

I should drive home. Not stand here like a douchebag, waiting for some dude I met once to text me back.

Still no response. I give it another minute, long enough for Frank to open the door to the office to give me that look that asks if I'm okay or just being an idiot and I sigh. I give him a thumbs up. Yes to both.

I climb in my car, toss my phone in the passenger side seat, crank the engine and the music. The ride home is only about fifteen minutes, and I spend all fifteen howling along with Daddy Yankee, because if I'm going to be a chode today, I might as well go all the way.

At home I find Rob sitting on the couch watching some chick show where everyone speaks in a British accent and has to tie up too many clothes. He's eating twizzlers.

"Spaghetti in the fridge," he calls over his shoulder without looking at me.

"Cool, thanks. How was your trip?" I sit and take off my boots. I need to shower--and shave, because I'm rocking at least 120 grit. I could probably sand drywall with my cheek.

"...but anyway, I'm glad to be home." Rob was saying. My bad.

"For real," I respond. I don't have the bandwidth to ask him to repeat it. "I'm gonna take a shower, ok?"

In the bathroom, I finally check my phone. He's responded.

Tonight?

My stomach clenches. I glance at the clock. It's 6:45. Kind of late, I have work at 7 am. This is not a good night.

Your place or mine?

I reply anyway. I pull off my clothes, and I realize I have a semi.

Quickly, I add,

My roommate Rob is here.

The reply comes back lightning fast.

Mine isn't

And then he sends me a GPS pin with his address. I am breathing so heavily, I'm nearly panting.

JesusJesusJesusJesus

. What am I doing? I check the distance. 20 minutes. Am I doing this?

See you in an hour

, I type my heart in my throat.

Come hungry

, he says.

Buddy, I am fucking starving.

On the drive there, my palms are not at all sweating profusely, I convince myself that I'm just going to get to know him.

Is that why you carefully styled your hair?

Shut up. I have to or it'll frizz.

And the cologne?

I like cologne, I reason.

And the tee shirt that makes your arms look amazing?

Heh. Can't argue there. Que guapo.

His apartment is a converted split level, like the rest of the rentals on the block. I park, and it hits me.

What the literal fuck am I even doing here? Oh my God. I cover my face with my hands. I need to turn around. I need to go home, call Tara, and rail her. Get my goddamned shit together.

I don't move. In fact, I kill the engine. It takes me ten minutes and a hit off my sneak-a-toke to work up the nerve to knock on the door.

How the fuck do I greet him? Do I give him dap? Shake his hand Like A Man? He opens the door while I'm mulling this over and I wave.

Really

? Really.

"Hey, man, come in," he says, like a normal person, and steps out of the doorway. He gives me a warm smile. "Beer?"

Maybe this will be okay. I'm here to hang out, what is there to even be nervous about? Normal, be normal.

He hands me a beer and I realize it smells amazing in here. He's makes his way back to his kitchen, so when I'm done hanging my coat on the back of his door, I follow. I sit at the kitchen table and now that I don't have my head all the way up my ass, I realize he's cooking actual food. Like, with ingredients and shit. Not a box. I hate him so much.

My mouth is watering, and not just because of the smell.

Getting a good look at him, I feel my chest tighten. He looks good for no reason. He's barefoot with a white tee and grey sweats. His long black hair is loosely pulled back in a low pony.

"I'm making risotto and sautéed mushrooms. I realized I totally forgot to ask you if you even like mushrooms," he calls over his shoulder with a chuckle.

"Me? You're cooking for me?" I blurt.

"Well, yeah! Seems like a dick move to just eat in front of you."

Oh, that makes sense.

He takes the mushrooms off the heat and tosses them. He adds them to the creamy rice dish, and plates everything.

I watch him come to the table and just soak him in. The sweats, the towel over his shoulder, the way the shirt in all its simplicity reveals the strength rippling underneath. I have to find something wrong with him, I can't live my life half hard.

He sets the plates down and sits. The table is small with seating for two, and I obsess over his nearness.

Smiling and without looking up he says, "You're staring."

Shit.

"I'm just imagining you pregnant, now that I've seen you barefoot in the kitchen," I joke, but my heart is racing.

"Yeah? How do I look? Do I have a healthy glow or am I bloated?" He laughs. Fuck yes, that laugh. The feeling of relief is almost palpable like I'm finally getting the hit I've been impatiently craving.

"I cannot imagine you anything but gorgeous," I crack, and he stills and I realize what I just said and how it came out. I start mentally dividing up my personal effects for my will because I have to go lay down and die.

I clear my throat, "So that came out--"

"What?" His head snaps up and he levels me with his gaze. Any words I have die in my throat. "Are you going to say that came out wrong?"

There's an intensity to his gaze that has me real grateful I'm sitting at a table. Raging wood. I don't say anything, because I don't trust myself. I don't do anything at all, just look at him.

"Why do you have to look at me like that," he growls, and sits back in his seat scrubbing his hands over his face. If my heart beats any faster I'm going into cardiac arrest. I try to control my breathing. I don't know what's happening.

"You were supposed to be an asshole," his voice is rough, and it's such a 180 from his typical sweet tone that my stomach is flipping back and forth.

"For a year I hear all these horror stories about the things you've done to the guys V dates, and I prepare myself to meet you, like really get a handle on my shit, make myself impenetrable. I can handle this, I think. And then I meet you and," his hands drop to his lap and he lets out a humorless laugh.

"And there is nothing I could have possibly done to prepare myself. Not when you look at me like

that

."

He looks up at me now, I'm not sure when I stood up, but I'm standing and I'm looking at him, and I can feel the heat in my cheeks and the dryness of my throat and I feel so fucking foolish for even being here.

"I should-" I start but my throat is so dry it comes out hoarse. I clear my throat and swallow hard to try again, but I'm paralyzed.

He stands, and suddenly I go from looking down at him to looking up. He takes a step towards me and I stumble back.

"Go?" He asks softly and takes another step forward. I back up again and shake my head no, then shake my head yes. I'm panicking.

"Is that why you came over tonight? To leave?" He takes a third step forward and my back hits the partition wall that divides the living room from the kitchen.

"Is that why you came over looking like this?" He tugs a curl that hangs in my face and it bounces. I close my eyes.

He plants a hand on either side of my head and looks down at me, inches away from my face. I can feel his breath on my lips.

He breathes me in, "Is that why you smell this good?" Madre De Dios, I'm going to pass out.

I have never in my life, ever, experienced anything like this. I flash back to plenty of times I've had women in this exact position only to have them in a different position later.

I look at his lips. I lick mine.

He grabs my chin and forces me to look at his face.

"You wanna go?" He growls, his amber eyes dark, and hungry. He dips his head by my neck and I close my eyes and feel him inhale, his nose brushing against my ear.

"Then go," he murmurs right in my ear, the gravel heavy and I cannot--

He thumps the wall with the flat side of his fist, making me jump, and he straightens. He turns away from me, as though we're done here, and suddenly I'm fucking pissed.

"Hey," I bark, and seize him by his shirt before he could fully turn, catching him off balance, and reverse our positions, slamming him against the wall hard enough that the cabinet dishes clink.

"Let's get something fucking straight, cabrón--" I hiss in his face. His expression is blank, but his eyes are hot.

"I'm not gay," I snarl.

He grabs the back of my neck and our mouths crash together and my tongue meets his and it's not enough. I don't even have time to analyze what a horrible fucking mistake this is because I am pulling his shirt up and over his head and he's backing me into the hall, leaving our dinner untouched and cold.

My mouth is on his again and his lips and tongue taste better than anything I've ever had. I grunt in frustration, I should already be inside him.

My hands are frantic, trying to grab every part of him simultaneously, on his chest, across his abdomen, around his back, his ass. The kiss breaks long enough for him to pull off my shirt this time and then his mouth is on my neck and throat, and his hands are exploring every part of my flesh. He grabs at my belt, and I push his sweats down, adding to our trail from the kitchen to his bedroom.

I feel my back hit the door, presumably to his bedroom, and I grab his hair at the base and yank his head back. He makes this half growl/half moan sound and presses his hips against mine, and I'm on his mouth again. The heat of his cock right beside mine grinding into my hip is fucking killing me.

I have never been kissed like this. It's like he's trying to steal the breath from my lungs, like I'm his last meal before his execution, like the answers to life, the universe and everything would be revealed if he just kissed me harder.

And I'm meeting him stroke for stroke.

"Fuck," I gasp, because he twists the door knob and now we're tumbling backwards.

The backs of my knees hit his mattress, and he gives me a shove with enough strength that I bounce on the bed. The very bed I saw a million times over again this morning. I'm panicking, alarm bells are going off screaming MISTAKE, MISTAKE, but they're far away. I'm going to explode if I don't have him right the fuck now.

I am desperately trying to catch my breath. I prop myself up on one elbow, and thrust a hand against his chest.

"Stop," I command, and he grimaces, but he stands where he is, chest heaving, eyeing me. His hair is a mess, half in the pony and half strewn about. His eyes are wild, dark and hooded, his lips parted and hungry. He is fucking beautiful, and nothing about him is what I expected. I had expected washboard abs, but that's not what I find. His core is thick and solid and strong, and I realize this is not a man who isolates muscles to work, this is a man whose physique comes from yeeting a damn pig or whatever the hell you do on old Mac Donald's farm.

E-I-E-I-O, mother fucker.

"Don't," his voice is raw with lust and the very sound of it makes my cock twitch.

"Don't what?" I breathe, tracing my fingers down from his chest to his navel. Beautiful.

"Don't make me stop," he strains, and my eyes snap up to his.

"Why not?" I ask, drunk on this attention, on his attention. I brush my lips against his belly, and I hear him suck in a breath.

"Because I don't think I can," he manages, his voice strangled and I love it.

I run my hands over his ass and drag my teeth across his hips until my mouth meets his underwear. The black boxer briefs he's wearing are now doing a trash job at containing his terrifying cock, so I hook my fingers around the waistband and yank them down.

His cock springs out. And it's...Christ, is that even a cock? That's some Godzilla shit right there!

Oh shit, does that make me Tokyo?

I let out a low whistle, "Coñoooo, man, I figured you were hung like a horse but not the whole stable. Do I need a Sam's Club membership for this thing?" My mouth is watering. I'm done.

When I look up, I see uncertainty flash across his eyes, and I realize this mountain of a man is insecure. Life is just bananas.

I lean forward, looking him dead in the eyes and run my tongue carefully along the ridge, and then up over the head, pulling his precum into my mouth. I savor the taste for a second, exploring it. His breathing is ragged.