Bombora by Mal Peters Read Free Book Online Page A

I found myself checking out her boyfriend at the same time, I wasn’t sure I could picture myself in a relationship with a man in the way that seemed hardwired with chicks. Then again, I hadn’t had so much luck in the relationship department with women either. Was I bi, gay, or just confused? Damned if I knew. Liam happened before I could really figure out the answer to that question.
    At the time, I hadn’t quite managed to outgrow the anxiety that touching another dude’s dick established me as card-carrying member of Team Pink. For life. Marrying Emilia seemed the best solution for everyone: she’d get a husband and a father to our kid, I’d be a part of my son’s life and have someone awesome to hang out with, and hopefully my years of confusion would stay in the past where they belonged. Shit, even my father’s tough-as-nails cop’s heart seemed warmed by the sudden addition of a grandson and daughter-in-law before he died. And I was seriously going to fuck that up on a hunch that I might like cock? Hell no. I took my vows seriously. Maybe it’s no surprise I eventually cracked under the pressure of keeping that mask in place.
    That weekend in Columbus, I had no plans to do so. Honest. I’d entered a bit of a rough patch in the truce with my non-heterosexually inclined urges, but promised myself I’d do nothing more than look. Looking was acceptable, I reasoned, and it was something I needed, either to confirm my straightness or… I don’t know. I guess I never really stopped to think what I would do if I showed up at a gay bar and wanted more, but maybe I figured I’d cross that bridge if and when I got to it.
    I did not expect to meet him .
    The name of the bar was Foxley’s. I found the place on the Internet after hours of searching. Columbus’s gay scene isn’t exactly hopping, but thank God I learned how to delete browser history back when Hugh and I still lived together. Last thing I needed was Liam or, God forbid, Emilia finding all that shit. I went for the quietest watering hole I could find within walking distance of my hotel, and Foxley’s promised a laid-back atmosphere free of the aggressive trolling found at most gay bars and clubs. After a day filled with client meetings and phone conferences with Craig, I was in need of a stiff drink and a few hours to unwind. Used to being approached by the fairer sex at most of the sports bars I frequented, I found the prospect of not having to make polite conversation with interested women pretty appealing, this more a byproduct of marriage than my sexuality crisis. By comparison, I thought it’d be easier to tell a guy to fuck off, if it came to that.
    I don’t really know what I expected when I first walked in the door: male go-go dancers, maybe, or porn playing on the television screens, or a bunch of dudes having sex in plain sight. I was relieved to see all the customers fully clothed and grouped around the bar like civilized people, chatting, watching sports, drinking beer, and looking not at all like the rowdy club-goers you see on television shows like Queer As Folk . I guess you can like dick and still harbor misconceptions, huh? A giant deer head mounted on the wall set the tone of the place and, me being from Alabama, helped put me more at ease. I was still dressed for a meeting in my suit and tie, and quickly noticed others who looked like they’d also come from work. My wedding ring was tucked safely away in my suitcase back at the hotel. Feeling naked without it, I must have rubbed my ring finger a few times while I looked around.
    A few eyes shifted my way as I took a deep breath and wandered closer to the bar. Their rapid-fire appraisals made me feel like a bull being measured and weighed at a fair, the looks fast turning predatory when I seemed to pass some invisible standard. Now, I’m not blind or prone to false modesty—I know I’m a good-looking guy. I take care of myself and have never hurt for attention. But this was