Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Ansel matched his volume. “It’s not a crime. Why are you whispering?”
Fitch let out a breath and shook his head. “You don’t give a guy a break, do you?”
Ansel flipped his hair over his shoulder. “Why should I? No one has ever given me one. And anyway, I’m not the guy you want to be around if you’re ashamed of people thinking you’re gay. Hello.” He gestured to his painted face and glittery outfit. “I’m a blinking rainbow sign that says Queer as Fuck.”
Fitch looked at the table and drew a circle in the condensation left by his glass. “You’re vibrant, that’s for sure.”
“So, I’ll ask again. Why are we here?”
Again Fitch made eye contact. His deep brown eyes projected honesty and lust. “Because I can’t seem to get you out of my fucking mind.”
Ansel’s stupid, idiotic heart actually fucking skipped a beat. To mask the warmth suddenly spreading outward from his chest and up his neck, he lowered his head and pressed his lips together. Don’t fall for it. Pretty words came and went. He’d learned the hard way—love was a lie.
“But I do have some questions,” Fitch continued.
Glad for the distraction, he smirked. “Yes, it hurts like a son-of-a-bitch.”
“What? Oh.” Fitch shook his head and chuckled. “No, not about anal. And it can’t hurt that bad or so many people wouldn’t be doing it.”
“True enough. What’s your question?”
Before Fitch could speak, though, the food arrived. Ansel’s order of chili-cheese fries, a side of chicken fingers, and mozzarella sticks took up half the table while Fitch’s double bacon cheeseburger and onion rings fit on one plate.
“Are you really going to eat all that?”
“Hell yes. You’re paying, right?” He winked to let the guy know he was joking before biting off half a marinara-dipped cheese stick.
Fitch laughed and shook his head. “I thought this wasn’t a date,” he said, biting into his burger.
“Touché.”
They ate in companionable silence for a while, Ansel enjoying the diner’s fries more than he remembered even while Fitch kept staring at him. If it had been anyone else across the table he probably would have felt like a bug under a microscope and gotten defensive, but Fitch’s eyes were warm and syrupy and full of awe. It gave Ansel the distinct and unaccustomed sense of comfort. Which in turn ignited his fear. He was who he was, after all.
“What? Do I have sauce on my nose or something?” he finally asked.
Fitch shook his head. “This is going to sound crazy, but you look hot shoving melted cheese in your mouth.”
Ansel’s laugh was so loud and unexpected it drew the attention of the old man at the bar, so he quickly muffled it with his hand.
“If you think that’s hot, baby, wait until I get on my knees,” he replied when he caught his breath, and batted his eyelashes for extra punctuation.
The groan that escaped Fitch’s generous lips set Ansel’s blood on fire and instantly they went from teasing to blast-furnace desire.
“You shouldn’t say shit like that to me in a public place.” Fitch took a deep breath and licked grease off his bottom lip. Everything about the man screamed hunger. And Ansel was the feast about to be devoured.
Holy shit.
He took a giant gulp of his rum and Coke, searching his muddled brain for a change in topic. They needed to douse the inferno before he combusted right there in the middle of the diner.
Clearing his throat, he said, “Anyway, you said you had some questions?”
“Right.” Fitch sat back in the booth and stretched out his legs, pulling at the denim in a familiar move that had Ansel wondering just how thick the guy’s cock was beneath the fabric.
“Well, the thing is, I’m not very familiar with the LGBTQ subculture other than what my sister tells me.”
“Just spit it out.” Ansel winced at his bitchy tone. “Sorry, I’m just impatient.” And horny. “I promise I won’t be offended.”
“Okay.” Fitch smiled. “So, Meg’s friend said you guys aren’t drag queens.”
He dipped another stick in the sauce. “She’s right. I am nowhere near as fierce as a queen.”
“But you wear heels and makeup. What’s the difference?”
“I don’t tuck, most queens do. They often wear fake breasts too. Drag is for show. A performance. We don’t try to pass ourselves off as women. We dress like this every day. We just like pretty things.”
“So you’re trans?” Fitch scratched his jaw before popping another onion ring in his mouth.
“It depends on what you mean by trans. Transgender, I am not. I don’t identify as female. I enjoy everything male about myself. But technically I guess you could call me a transvestite. We prefer androgynous more than anything, a little bit of both and neither at the same time. Completely ambiguous. But personally I don’t like labels. I’m just Ansel fucking Becke and screw anyone who has a problem with it. I like heels. And I love makeup because it’s fun to play with color. It’s like painting.”