Hooking Up

We arrange to meet at Fairpark Mall because

neither of us is ready to bring the other home just yet. It’s been

three weeks since we met, an eternity online, but I’m still

cautious. I know what he says he looks like, know who he claims to

be, but nowadays you never can tell.

I’m waiting outside the food court, leaning

back against the wall with my hips thrust forward and the usual

scowl on my face. My black clothes must look like a bruise against

the whitewashed bricks. Through my dyed bangs, I watch people avoid

looking at me as they pass. Most grimace at my goth getup; a brave

few laugh. Fuck them.

Damien’s late.

For the hundredth time since I agreed to meet

him in person, I wonder if that’s his real name. I wonder what

he’ll call me. I go by Broken online, a shortened form of my

username brokenboy, but in one e-mail, I confessed that my

parents named me Brandon and he hasn’t called me anything else

since. How stupid would it sound, asking him to call me by my login

name when we’re standing face to face? I shift my weight from one

foot to the other and hope there won’t be much talk between us once

he finally shows up. We can talk online, through IMs or blog

comments. I’m under the impression here that we’re getting together

for so much more.

Supposedly he drives a black car—I’ve seen

pics of it on his page. But now that I’m looking for it, every car

circling the mall seems to be black. What if he’s just cruising the

lot, checking me out? I run a self-conscious hand through my spiked

hair and glare at the world around me in general. What if he’s

watching me right this minute? Or if he’s already driven by, didn’t

like what he saw, and left me hanging? I’ll go home and log online

just to find some lame excuse in my inbox: Sorry dude, something

suddenly came up. I pick at the hem of my tight black t-shirt,

tug it down to meet the waistband of my black jeans, smooth it

across my stomach and feel the heat of the morning sun where it’s

warmed the fabric. I’m surprised to find how damn nervous I am

here. I’ve done this before, met guys online and scheduled to hook

up with them in real life, but Damien’s the first one I’ve really

felt anything for, if I’m being honest. He’s the first person I’ve

ever connected with and it fucking scaresme, the way he’s

managed to slip into my everyday existence in such a short span of

time. If he bails on me today … if he doesn’t even bother to

come…

A familiar black Camaro turns at the light

and zooms through the lot, heading straight for me. As it nears, I

recognize the face behind the wheel as the one on Damien’s

webcam—so he really ishot as shit. Narrow jaw, chiseled

cheekbones, dark eyes like ink pooled in the hollows of his face.

Long black hair, dyed like mine I’m sure, wispy against his pale

skin. When he sees me staring, he flashes a roguish grin that seems

to shake my world and I swear the car lunges forward with a sudden

burst of speed. At the last possible second, Damien turns the wheel

and eases to a stop at the curb in front of me. Then he cuts the

engine and steps out before I can push away from the wall. With

quick strides he comes at me, a commanding look in his eyes that

makes my dick take notice. I’m just about to say something stupid

like, “Hey Damien,” when he steps up beside me and leans against my

arm. The chill of air conditioning lingers around him, making him

seem impossibly cool on such a hot day, but when he touches my bare

midriff with black-tipped fingers, my flesh burns beneath his. He’s

a few inches taller than me and glowers as if trying to tattoo me

onto his brain. When I start to speak, he covers my lips with his

in a silencing kiss.

For one breathless moment, his tongue enters

me. I lean back against the warm brick, not caring who sees us here

outside the mall, with his hand on my stomach, one finger tracing

my navel, as he licks inside my mouth. He fills my senses and

tastes like cherry lollipops, his scent a mixture of patchouli musk

and the sweet sting of pot. He weakens me. I fumble at his waist,

finding one of the belt loops on his black jeans, then rub my hand

up under his black tank top, over taut skin to finger one erect

nipple, hard as a nugget of gold in my palm. In public!my

mind screams, thrilled. The hand on my stomach slips lower, sneaks

beneath the waistline of my jeans, his thumb still circling my

navel as he kisses me again and again. I sigh when he pulls away,

and gasp each time he delves, hungry, deeper into me.