Waiting on life, p.1
Waiting on Life, page 1
Big, bald, tattooed, and more than a little possessive, Toby Tomlinson wasn’t what you’d call a “lady’s man.” In fact, he usually got too serious before they were ready. One day, upon returning home from work, Toby finds a young woman kneeling to pick up mail she’d dropped. Taken with her red hair and slender body, he says hello as he grabs his own mail. The woman jumps and bangs her head against the open door, then lets loose with a string of expletives. She turns around, and Toby discovers the person he’s been ogling isn’t a woman at all… but a man.
Kyle Roga’s heard it all before. High school was filled with taunting by classmates who could tell Kyle was far too fabulous to be straight. And now, here he was, being pawed at by a man who stole Kyle’s breath away. He ticked every box Kyle had, and a few he didn’t even know he wanted ticked. The problem? Kyle’s been burned before by straight men who think you’re good enough for sex, but not for a relationship. He’s been bitten way more than once, and he doesn’t want to go down that path again.
Two men, each with a different way of looking at love, find themselves having to reexamine what they always believed about who they are. Will it be enough to bring them together? Will each discover what they’ve been doing isn’t living, but waiting on life?
Chapter One
Toby
I’d entered my apartment building, my ass dragging after my tenth consecutive sixteen-hour shift as the manager of a local bar called, appropriately, No Angels. I’d marked myself off on the calendar as I left for the night, desperately needing a day to unwind. Wednesdays were our slowest day, so the guys should be able to handle it without issue.
I already knew the greeting I was going to get when I walked in the door of my modest two-bedroom place, and if it took me a few extra minutes, that would be okay, because I didn’t relish the idea of the dressing down waiting for me.
There was a young woman, bent at the waist, retrieving mail that had apparently fallen from the tiny slot that passed as mailboxes in our complex. Attached to the slender, toned body was an absolutely lovely backside that made me smile. I groaned, because I was perving on some woman in my building, and that whole “don’t shit where you eat” thing extended to outside of work. Still, though… that ass was a siren calling me to crash on its firm shore. As I got closer, I caught a scent that tickled my nose. The spicy notes suited this woman perfectly. Instead of giving in to my baser instincts and cupping her ass—which, of course, I would never do uninvited—I cleared my throat and stepped around her so I could claim my own mail.
“Excuse me.”
She yelped and jerked upright, which caused her to bang her head on the still-open mailbox door. She dropped to her knees with a cry of shock or pain—I wasn’t sure which. I knelt next to her and ran my fingers through artfully styled short red hair that had been shaved on the sides. It was a bold statement, and I liked women who gave zero fucks about how others would feel about the choices they made. I winced when my fingers made contact with a definite lump. Fortunately there wasn’t any blood, so that was a bonus.
“You okay?” I still hadn’t stopped rubbing her head, enjoying the soft texture of her hair as I glided my hand over it. I’d never been one for fabrics, but I do recall my sister, Tammy, showing me her prom dress and saying it was silk. This woman’s hair was similar. “Did you hurt yourself?” I asked, keeping my voice soft so as not to scare her.
She murmured something, then snapped her gaze in my direction, and my jaw dropped. It wasn’t a woman! I’d been ogling a man’s ass and touching his hair. My stomach heaved. My own sister was a lesbian and married to an amazing young lady. I mean, I understood liking women, but guys? Hard pass.
Okay, this is probably a good time to point out that at No Angels, we had gay guys working for us. Scott, Donnie, and Cary were all gay. I’m going to admit something here—I didn’t want to hire a gay guy. I thought with the clientele we had in the bar, they’d get harassed or would be intimidated by them. Tammy pleaded with me to give Scott a chance, and until recently, I never regretted it. The guys—well, at least Scott and Cary—were great with the customers. Donnie? Ugh.
I pulled my attention away from the creeping thoughts of Donnie and turned it back to the guy in front of me.
He grumbled as he rubbed his head. “Gee, let’s see. Godzilla clomps over, scares the shit out of me, and I jump. Unless you’re deaf, you heard me when my head and that fucking piece of metal collided. Did it fucking sound like I was okay?”
He glanced up, and I was allowed my first good look at him. I couldn’t deny that the front view was nice—for a guy, I mean. On his pale skin, there was a smattering of freckles, especially ones that dotted the bridge of his upturned nose and high cheekbones. His ears, pink at the tips, came to a slight point. Pouty little lips, warm and soft, that seemed made for kissing. I wondered briefly what they would look like if they were passion-swollen. It actually gave me an ache in my chest to tear my gaze away from his mouth.
Then I noticed his eyes. I’d met more than a few redheaded women in my life, and I thought they were beautiful. But this guy’s eyes were so different from anything I’d ever seen. They were like warm chocolate with flecks of gold stirred in. If you looked, the gold seemed to swirl in his gaze. Anyone—man or woman—who looked into those depths would be ensnared and never want to get out. As much as I loathed having to admit it, the man was, without a doubt, simply stunning. The fact that he swore like a sailor in no way detracted from his twinky appearance. I figured he cussed to get people to take him seriously.
“Do you make it a habit of groping men?” he muttered, leaning back and taking his face out of my reach. He put a hand up and ran long, slender fingers over his hair. “Fuck,” he barked, then winced when he felt the knot.
“Oh, sorry,” I replied. I hadn’t even been aware I was still touching him. “Are you all right? Do you need first aid?”
“Fuck,” he grunted as he touched the bump once more. “I’m fine.” He held his mail in a tight fist, and I could see his knuckles turning white.
To this day, I don’t know why I did it. I was too mesmerized by this guy to simply walk away. I held out a hand. “I’m Toby Tomlinson.”
He glared at my hand, then up at my face. His brow twitched as he reached out. “Kyle Roga.”
“Nice to meet you. Have you lived here long?”
“No, we just moved in a few days ago.”
We? I breathed out. I found myself still unable to stop looking at Kyle, and I had no idea why. He was so pretty that I could almost imagine he was a girl. His skin was flawless, his face round and sweet, his expression open and sincere. I wasn’t wrong before. Falling under his spell would be simple for anyone.
“Me and my roommate, Pete. We went to school together and found out we could stand each other, so we decided to move in together after graduation. Well, not right after graduation. I lived by myself for about a year, but that didn’t work out. Pete and I, the two of us….” He blushed. “Sorry, sometimes I get verbal diarrhea.” He cocked his head. “What about you? Have you lived here long?”
“About three years. I’m saving up to buy a house, but I need something very specific.”
His delicate brow quirked. “Oh?”
“Yeah, it’s going to sound weird. I want a farmhouse with a big kitchen, maybe some chickens, and a couple of goats.” I really wanted a miniature goat. I’d seen videos of them on YouTube, and they made me laugh. I realized Kyle was staring at me, and I scratched the back of my neck. I’d never told anyone outside my family about my dream house. “The living room will have a fireplace, and the bedroom will have a small one too.” I’d always envisioned me and my wife moving there, making a home on the land, planting crops, raising food for us. I wanted out of the city in the worst way. I’d had too many problems with people, and the thought of getting away from it all and making a life free from their judgments was appealing to me.
“Sounds nice.”
Well, the dream was. Whether I would ever achieve it was in doubt. Money was tight, and it went out faster than I could make it, even working extra hours. Still, that was okay for now. I smiled at Kyle, and I noticed something strange. His expression had changed. He seemed nervous.
“You okay?”
“What? Yeah, fine.” He glanced out the window. “I should go. My roommate will probably be home soon.”
His words jolted me out of my fantasy world, and I realized we were still in the lobby of the apartment building. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you.”
“No, it’s fine. I just gotta….”
Then those eyes I found so distracting widened as he did a slow, lingering perusal of me. At six five, two hundred pounds of somewhat solid muscle—my taste for craft beer gave me a bit of a gut—and covered in tattoos, I figured he wasn’t too pleased to see who’d had their hands on him. Not that I could blame him, of course.
“Yeah, well,” he started, then cleared his throat, snatched up his mail, and jumped to his feet. “I should go. Thanks for….” He fluttered a hand. “Whatever.”
The bell for the elevator chimed, and Mrs. Kaminski sauntered out, her dog, Riley, in tow. Kyle bolted for the open door, got in, and stabbed a button. He stood there, his gaze locked with mine, until the slow-closing mirrored door finally shut. I sighed as I collected my own mail. I closed Kyle’s mailbox door, then my own. I thumbed through my envelopes and noticed one of the letters I had was addressed to Kyle. Of course, being the good-natured sort I am, I knew I should return it to him. I mean, it was t
I shook my head, determined to clear it. Why did I care how Kyle had looked at me? It wasn’t like I wanted to impress him or anything. It was just… I didn’t care when anyone else looked at me like that. I’d gotten some menacing glares and more than a few unkind comments, and shrugged them off, but for some reason, having seen that look on Kyle’s face gave me an ache in my stomach.
Well, whatever. I had to get up to my apartment and be yelled at by my roommate.
The doors opened and I got on. I caught a whiff of the cologne that I had thought was a woman’s, but now? There was a decidedly masculine undertone. I knew immediately it had been what Kyle was wearing. It was subtle and soft, not like Cool Water or something that assaults your senses. This was… gentle, and it suited Kyle perfectly.
I stopped outside Kyle’s apartment—6G, according to the envelope—which made him my across-the-hall neighbor. I lifted my hand to knock, then thought better of it, and instead slid the letter under his door before I went back to my own place.
When I was unlocking the door, the high-pitched yowl of complaint hit me like nails on a chalkboard. I checked my watch and groaned. I deserved what I was about to get. I pushed the door, and a large white tiger-striped blur threw himself dramatically at my feet, crying in his death throes.
“Drama queen,” I grumbled, reaching down for a quick scratch. My Waldo, so named because unless it was feeding time, you wouldn’t find him without looking, was an interesting cat. After I’d left the bar one night, I’d noticed a tiny kitten trying to get into our dumpster. I snatched him up and held him to my chest, his purrs going through my leather jacket. I couldn’t just leave him, and it was too late to do anything else with him, so I decided to take him home with me until morning, when I’d intended to take him to the shelter.
I’d stopped at a gas station and grabbed a small container of cat litter and a Tupperware thing that would pass as a box for him. I put everything in the bathroom, then grilled some chicken for my dinner. He meowed pitifully while he climbed my pant leg and tried to get to my food. I diced some of the meat into small pieces, then put it on a plate, before placing it on the floor near the sink. He jumped down and tore into it. Before I turned in, I put him in the bathroom, then crawled into bed, bone weary. Somehow the little bastard got out of the bathroom and made his way to my bed and up onto my pillow. He woke me with little licks to my nose, and when I opened my eyes, he gave out a tiny squeak of greeting, then curled into a ball on my chest, with his head tucked under my chin. I left him there and let his gentle snuffling lull me back to sleep.
When I woke up the next morning, he was still there. My plan to take him to the shelter was out the window. I called the closest vet and set up an appointment to have him checked out and neutered and given his shots. They had an opening the next day, my only day off that week, so I took it. When it came time to get ready to go, I searched under my bed, in the cabinets, even in the hallway, though there was no way he could have gotten out of the apartment. It was almost one thirty and the appointment was at two. In desperation, I grabbed a can of tuna from one of the shelves, opened it, and put the entire thing on a plate. In only a few moments, he came rushing out of the bedroom and headed for the treat. He never made it, as I snatched him up and tucked him into my jacket, him protesting with every step.
I could not love that cat more.
After his surgery, I contacted the shelter and told them what I’d done. I asked about surrendering him, and they told me I could keep him and they’d put notes about him in their files in case anyone came looking. They were honest and said they didn’t expect that would happen, but that I needed to be prepared in case.
It never did, and Waldo became my responsibility.
“Sorry, highness,” I mumbled. “There was this guy downstairs, and I got caught up talking with him. It’s his fault I forgot my primary responsibility to you. I hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me.”
Waldo sat up and meowed, then marched toward the kitchen, stopping to give a glare that would ensure I was behind him. I couldn’t help but chuckle at his imperious attitude, and found myself following him for his twice-a-day feeding. I opened the can and was about to put it in his dish, when my phone rang. I glanced at the number and groaned as I swiped a finger over the screen to answer the call.
“I just got in,” I whined by way of greeting.
“Toby, I’m sorry” came the harried voice on the other end of the line. Cary James was a good guy, and my best barman. He was twenty-three and gave off a preppy vibe. With his longish blond hair and his turquoise blue eyes, Cary was so different from the hardass guys who frequented the bar. Still, he came in one night when we desperately needed help. I hired him on the spot and put him behind the bar right away, offering to pay him cash for the four hours he slung drinks. By the time the evening was over, he’d enraptured everyone he served with his southern charm and easy smile. For the next two years, he’d made himself indispensable. For him to call me when I’d waved good bye as I left meant that something bad had happened.
“It’s fine, Cary. What’s wrong?”
“Donnie called off like five minutes ago, and the bar is packed.”
I scrubbed a hand over my head. Donnie was like the anti-Cary. He’d only been hired as a server because he was the boyfriend of Scott, another of my bartenders, and I’d regretted it within the first five minutes. Donnie was lazy, acted as though the customers bored him, and gave the place a bad overall vibe, which, considering our clientele, I admit was hard to do. He’d also blown off three shifts in the past month without giving me any notice to find a replacement.
“He’s done,” I growled. “You and Scott do the best you can until I get there. Let he customers know there isn’t a server. I’ll see you soon. Shouldn’t be more than thirty minutes or so.”
“Uh….”
Pain spiked through my eye as a headache settled in for a nice, comfy stay. “Don’t tell me. Scott called off too, right?”
“Yes,” Cary squeaked.
That was the last goddamn straw. Both of them were going to be out on their asses before bar close. I gave my shirt a quick whiff. It wasn’t bad. At least in my bar, it was one of those things that wouldn’t disgust the clientele, who mainly smelled of leather and motor oil.
“Fifteen minutes. Can you hold everything together for that long?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll be there as quick as I can. And, Cary? Thank you for calling me.”
I disconnected and turned to grab some things for work, when tiny little claws on my leg and loud crying reminded me I hadn’t done my duty. If anyone at the bar saw this shit, they’d die laughing. Toby Tomlinson being browbeaten by a kitten not much older than a few months. I dropped the dish on the floor, grinning when Waldo pounced on it, then hurried to grab my bag in case I needed some last-minute deodorant or anything.
In the fifteen minutes it took me to get to the bar, utter chaos had descended. There was a line waiting for drinks, and none too patiently. Cary was putting them up faster than I would have thought possible, but he was alone and sure as hell couldn’t do a two-man job by himself.
I slipped behind the bar and called out to let people know they could come down by me. The first one in line began bitching about the wait. The volume of the crowd rose, with many complaints about how long they’d been in line and why they had to wait.
“Shut the fuck up, all of you!” I roared. “Cary did his best to serve you, and you should be on your fucking knees thanking him for holding it together. Now, if you’re that upset, you know where the door is and you’re welcome to use it. If you’re going to be decent and give us a bit of time to get to you, then stand there, shut up, and let us get to work.”
