Panic Prone

Bennett

"It's on me."

Micah shoved my money toward me, sliding the ten dollar bill across the tabletop. I didn't put up a fight. I'd get the next one.

"I feel like I should be saying that I don't know what went wrong, but the truth is that I know exactly what went wrong. How could I expect a wealthy lawyer's son to be OK with running a part-time garage when he could be making six figures? And how could I expect our marriage to last when we got married on a whim?"

Micah swallowed thickly, the non-verbal way of saying he agreed, that the marriage was doomed from the start. I knocked back my whisky, choking a little, my face getting hot too quickly. But I didn't care. If I got fall-down drunk, Micah was there to drag me back to his apartment.

"Where's Scarlet?" Micah asked, staring at his untouched gin and tonic.

"With my parents. They're keeping her for a while, until I can figure out how to explain why her daddies don't live together anymore."

Thunder growled in the distance. Summer was ebbing. Autumn teased the city with alternating scalding hot and cool, stormy days. It was Friday, thankfully, and I planned on making my pain disappear in whatever immediate, temporary way I could.

"Let's go to a different kind of bar."

Micah smirked. "You mean the kind that doesn't serve french fries and chicken wings?" He made the motion of drinking his gin, but I knew he didn't really swallow. The volume of liquid in the glass didn't change.

"I mean the kind of bar where I can find someone to help me forget that I just got divorced." I maintained eye contact with Micah. He looked disappointed somehow. What did he expect? You don't end a three-year marriage without falling apart a little bit. And I wanted to fall apart. I could feel my composure waning with each swallow of whiskey.

"I don't know any in the area," Micah replied, blushing, diverting his eyes.

"The powers of Google, my friend." I whipped out my smart phone and, within the hour, we were moving down the sidewalk to the self-described gay club. It was early in the evening, and so only a few young men were scattered in front of the bartender's post. I sat at a booth that didn't include a table, just a U-shaped leather sofa facing the source of alcohol.

"You need some water," Micah muttered, rising to fetch it for me. I grabbed his wrist. He gasped sharply, a little too sharply, and a thought entered my sluggish brain. Micah still had the hots for me. Even being slightly impaired, I knew that was bad.

"What?" Micah asked, taking his wrist away. I hesitated.

"Uh… another whiskey."

He nodded and slinked away. Someone at the bar leaned toward him as he ordered, flirted, and then leaned away in rejection after a quick dismissal from Micah. He returned with two whiskeys, two glasses of water, and a lost look on his stubbly face. I knocked a couple more back before deciding that I was thoroughly drunk. Micah babysat his nearly untouched glass. The place became crowded quickly. Strangers squished into the booth beside us, pushing my thigh against Micah's, and soon I was chatting easily with the man beside me. I was drunk, so the conversation certainly seemed engaging enough to get to the making-out phase.

My heart was pounding out of my chest at the thrill of kissing someone other than my husband. Ex-husband. Micah was far from my sluggish thoughts as the man pulled me from my seat and to the dance floor, which had gone from barren to thriving over the last hour.

Our dancing was more like humping, our kissing more like tongue wrestling. At some point, I felt something soft beneath my head - a pillow - and, prostrate, lost myself in as much pleasure as two fully clothed men could have in the dark corner of a club.

Micah

"Well. Fuck me sideways if it isn't Micah."

I glanced up from the dark surface of my drink. The club was so very dark. Darker than I remembered, but still, I could recognize the man standing in front of me. His hair was dyed red, the first time we met. It was blue this time, sloppily arrayed around his perfect, angular face, falling into his sharp, sardonic eyes.

"Silas? You're still here?"

"Of course I'm still here," he sneered. "The real question is: what are you doing here? You ran out of here like a madman last time."

"A friend got a divorce."

"A friend?" Silas' brow cocked. He pointed at Ben and the stranger on the dance floor, grinding hips and sucking face. There was a painful jolt in my gut. "That friend? The one swallowing Van's face?"

I sighed. Silas chuckled.

"It's been several years, Micah. Has anything changed? Could I coax you into the pillows and steal that innocent light in your eyes?"

I fumed. It was a tender spot, but he couldn't have known that. "I'm far from innocent, Silas. I have a steady boyfriend, you know."

"A boyfriend?" Silas chirped in mock enthusiasm. "Oh, that's so daring." His eyes rolled, even as he stepped forward and stole my phone from the front pocket of my shirt.

"Hey!"

"Relax! Just putting my number in… and taking yours. Text me if you ever want to have some real fun, ok?" He tossed the phone back. It landed in my lap. He sauntered away, aware that I was staring at his tiny little ass.

I glanced back at the dance floor. Bennett was gone. Shit. I left my seat, pushing through a million grabbing hands on the dance floor, searching for my dark-complected heartthrob. I stopped. There he was, writhing on the pillows with some random, short dude with long black (or brown? It was dark.) hair. Bennett's fist curled in his long hair. Their hips moved together. My face was hot. I was feeling aroused and pissed, a dangerous cocktail of over-the-top emotions.

I staggered to the bathroom before I did anything I would regret. Anything that would belie my affection for Bennett. Anything that would sever my connection to Wyatt.

I shut and locked the stall door, grimacing at the erection pressing against my pants. I took out my cell phone, fumbled through the contacts, and dialed Wyatt. The phone rang three times before he answered.

"Hey," Wyatt greeted with an exhausted sigh. "What's up?"

"I love you," I breathed, feeling relieved at the sound of his voice. "I love you so much."

"I love you too." He laughed, and I could tell that he was embarrassed. A smile touched my lips. "What's going on, Micah? I hear music in the background."

Be honest. You have nothing to hide, I urged myself.

"I'm at a bar."

"Ah. Alone?"

"Um…" Shit. "Yep. I wish you were here."

"Three hours away, babe. I'll be back on Monday, though. We'll get thoroughly reacquainted then."

I felt the tension ease from me. Wyatt. I just needed to be reminded that Wyatt was the one who kept me safe from myself, and I needed to allow my promise to Wyatt to keep me safe from Bennett.

Wyatt

Alone, hm? Hardly. Any lie from Micah is proceeded by some sort of "eh" or "um." Who, then? That music wasn't bar music. It was club music. That pointed to Piper, except that Piper wasn't in town either. Only Bennett and Nolan remained. I groaned, setting aside my blueprints and removing my glasses. I hoped I wouldn't return home to a nightmare. Many years had passed since the debacle with Nolan, and I'd forgiven the asshole. I wasn't going to fuck my way back into anyone's heart. I was still disgusted that I tried that tactic with Nolan. If Micah wanted to leave me, I'd leave. And I'd probably never trust another man again. He was my last effort. I loved him in a deeper, more intimate and healthy way than anyone before him. I didn't want to lose him. But I had too much self-respect to grovel or scheme.

The night wore on. Nothing but work. And in the morning, I received an email that extended my stay by another week. Dammit.

I called Micah to let him know. The phone rang twice before there was an answer from an unfamiliar voice.

"Micah's phone, this is Silas speaking. Can I take a message?"