Opposite Day

The last time he’d broken up with a boyfriend, Davis thought morosely, it had been a beautiful day. A perfect summer day, if he recalled correctly. The kind meant for a day on the beach, or taking a drive, or going up to the club to enjoy the perfect weather with one’s boyfriend.

That particular boyfriend had been too busy fucking Davis’ secretary to care about sunshine and sand. Davis wondered if it was better or worse than catching his most recent ex with his ex. Secretary, that was trite, but inviting one’s ex into the apartment shared with a current boyfriend…that was just plain tasteless. Worse, then.

Having answered that question, Davis stood beneath the plastic shell at the bus stop and stared out at the pouring rain, wondering which was worse: catching a lover cheating on a nice day, or on a shitty one. Nice weather just seemed insult on top of injury, but thunderstorm seemed to be laying it on a bit thick. A nice cloudy day, but still warm out, really seemed the most ideal weather for suddenly winding up an ex.

Davis closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He really wanted a stiff drink, and was grateful that it was at least Friday. His family thought he and Roger were going out of town ’til Wednesday, so he could hide in his house without problem and be left in peace.

Monday or Tuesday, he’d clear his things out of the apartment, and that would be that. He couldn’t even be upset about it, just like he wasn’t terribly upset about the last one. He should be, he knew that, and his pride was certainly stung … but mostly he just felt relief. The break up meant he would be left alone for a couple of weeks before he was pushed to find another suitable boyfriend, because he ‘would never go places without the stability of a relationship’.

God he wanted to be home already.

He wished he had driven, but he hadn’t bothered to take his car into the city because it was a pain and they were taking the shuttle to the airport anyway. Whatever. The bus would arrive in—he pushed back the sleeve of his trench coat—ten more minutes. It was a thirty-five minute ride to his stop, a ten minute walk to his apartment, and another two minutes to shuck his coat, grab a glass, and fill it with bourbon.

As plans went, it left a lot to be desired, but it met his goals of ‘hide’ and ‘get drunk’ and that was all he really cared about. He looked up at the sound of something coming up fast—and moved too late to avoid being doused with water as some jackass roared by.

Davis swore, loudly and colorfully and he just didn’t care if it wasn’t proper. He was tired of it all. Tired of the proper job. The proper boyfriends he kept catching sucking other cocks. The proper family who only cared about appearances and making the most of him, and not at all about things like happiness. Sighing, he rubbed at his temples and wished fervently that going home was as simple as clicking the heels of sparkly red shoes.

Not that he owned sparkly red shoes, his mother would die of a heart attack, and red really wasn’t his color. Davis sighed again, and finally bent to retrieve his soaked briefcase. The papers inside were probably ruined, but he really just didn’t give a damn.

He tensed as a car pulled up alongside him, realizing it was the one that had just added the icing to his lousy day cake. Slowly standing up, he eyed the guy who got out warily. Generally speaking, guys who looked like that—hot, buff, covered in enough tattoos he probably owned a tattoo parlor or something—did not approve of guys like Davis. He knew it firsthand, and if he ever tried to forget it growing up, plenty of people were happy to remind him.

“Hey, man, are you all right?” the guy asked, scrubbing a hand over his hair. “I totally did not mean to soak you like that, I was a total asshole.”

Davis stared at him, startled, then managed to gather some of his wits. “Forget about it, accidents happen.”

“Still, the day is shitty enough. Uh, can I give you a lift somewhere? Least I can do. Promise I’m not an ax murderer or anything.”

He started to say no, because it was stupid and he could see the bus coming slowly, just two blocks away now. Better to get rid of the guy and hop the bus, and Davis opened his mouth to say exactly that. “Sure, that would be great, if you really don’t mind.”

The man grinned at him. “Not at all. Hop in, don’t worry about getting her wet.” He darted back around to the driver’s side and slid in, and Davis started to take it back but the bus was laying on its horn and—fuck it, he decided. Just fuck it. He slid inside the car and barely had the door closed before they were flying down the street. “Sorry again, man.”

“Forget about it, really,” Davis replied. “I’m grateful for the ride.”

“Name’s Brody Simons.” They stopped at a light, and Brody held out his hand.

Davis shook it. “Davis Wheaton.”