The trio spent the afternoon downing drafts at two dollars a mug and snacking on appetizers. A little after four, Brady stretched as he stood, his button-down shirt pulling free from the waistband of his jeans. “Family calls,” he announced. “I’m pleasantly buzzed, stuffed full, and I’ve got a certain someone’s number on a napkin in my pocket. Now that’s what I call a lunch.”
Micah didn’t say anything. He was still miffed he had called it wrong—true, he wasn’t really attracted to Brady, but he’d made up his mind to screw the guy and he was the one getting screwed instead. Not in a good way, either. As Brady dropped his Visa gift card onto the table to cover their drinks, Micah waved him away. He felt like a hired w***e for some reason—paid for and disillusioned with the experience. “We don
