Pretty Boy

Finn

Everything stinks and smells like fish.

I make a pukey face and gagging noise as I stare at the face of my best friend, Sabine, filling up my phone’s screen. Her heavily lipsticked mouth puckers in a comical expression at my look of disgust.

Need I remind you, Finnegan, that you are visiting a coastal fishing town? Where—gasp—she raises her hand to cover her mouth and does just that, gasping exaggeratedly before leaning in close to the camera so I get the view of a raised eyebrow, and whispers—there are actually fish.

Sabby cackles over the line and I roll my eyes before glancing around, taking in the room full of loud, flannel-wearing patrons of the Fish & Hook Tavern.

I’d arrived in Stoney Brook, Maine, earlier this morning via Boston. Never having been to Maine for anything, I’ve come to this sleepy little coastal town to stage a peaceful protest at this weekend’s Tall Ship Festival, an annual event that brings in hundreds of thousands of wooden boat and ship enthusiasts every July.

No, I’m not protesting tall ships. I’m asserting my rights in response to the inhumane treatment of whales and sea life as an unintentional consequence of lobster fishing. A cause that, as an avid environmental activist, I feel is my duty to address the only way I know how, through peaceful protests to raise awareness.

I suppose I could have staged the protest in Boston, where I live, which is full of wharves and a huge fishing community. But when I heard that the Tall Ships Fest would draw in over fifty thousand visitors, it seemed like the perfect location.

Except that the stench of fish is so strong in this tiny town that it permeates the air in every nook and cranny with its overpowering odor. I have to fight my constant urge to plug my nose like a stubborn child might do when forced to eat Brussels sprouts. Even the bed quilt at the B&B I’ve booked for the weekend puts off the faint odor of herring and scrum.

Nevertheless, I resolve to keep my eye on the prize and avoid getting distracted by anything but the efforts of this rally. With the help of social media and my network of active members of the group I founded, Peaceful Protesters for Environmental Change, or PPEC, we should have at least thirty people gathered along Stoney Brook’s wharf and park tomorrow morning at nine a.m. sharp.

I take a sip of the Sailor Jerry’s and Coke the bartender set in front of me, nearly sputtering from the high alcohol content in the drink. That’s not something I’m used to getting in the big city.

Yeah, I know that, Captain Obvious. But it doesn’t help that I don’t think anyone here even bothers to take a shower after their day on the boat before they come to the tavern. It’s vile. I whisper this last part, surreptitiously looking around to ensure no one overhears me. As an activist, I make my share of enemies along the way. No need to get anyone riled up over my casual comments, too.

My gaze lands on a table behind me where four guys, clearly locals and obviously fisherman, sit, and my eyes lock with one of the hottest men I’ve ever seen.

Dark bedroom eyes stare back at me, his mouth tipped down in an angry grimace. I don’t know how he overheard me in this noisy place, but it’s clear he may have. And if he did, he doesn’t look happy about it or my presence.

I whip my head back around, biting my lip nervously. Oh shit, Sab. I may not make it out of here alive. Say goodbye to everyone for me and tell all my friends I love them, will you?

Sabine chuckles. Always such a drama queen. Let me get a good look at him so if you are murdered and I’m called in as a witness, I can identify your assailant.

You’re always so thoughtful, looking out for me, aren’t you, Sab?

She grins cheekily. That’s what friends are for. Now come on, let me see.

I adjust the phone so it angles over my shoulder at the table behind me, turning it just slightly so I can get Mr. Bedroom Eyes in the frame.

And there he is again, this time staring at my back as I straighten in my barstool, feeling a little flushed from the zap of electricity his gaze sends sizzles up my spine . He crosses his arms over his rock-hard chest, biceps straining against the fabric of his T-shirt. It’s both an intimidating and sexy-as-hell move all in one.

"Mmm-hmm, Sabby hums in admiration. He looks like quite the catch. Pun intended, of course."

I scoff, pulling the phone away so she can no longer see the scenery behind me, as she huffs out her irritation.

Shut it. I’m not here to catch anything. Although I’ll probably catch some sort of weird fish disease. Scales will begin to grow on my back. I shiver and take another swig of my strong-ass drink as Sabby laughs at my attempt at humor. And besides, how many gay men live in a place like this place anyway? Or at least ones that are out. None, that’s how many. Now…tell me what’s going on with Jarvis. Are you going to see him again?

Before I can get an answer about the new guy she went out with last night, Sabby’s eyes grow wide—nearly as wide as her grin—before her mouth drops open and she points into her phone camera.

Ahem. She clears her throat. Looks like you’re about to reel in quite the prize fish.

The heat of him hits me before his deep baritone fills the space between us. The dark-haired man stands to my right, elbows propped against the bar and carrying with him an ocean-breeze scent and a bit of masculine musk, as he calls out to the bartender.

Hey, Conner. We need another round and a few shots of whiskey.

The bartender, Conner, nods at the man as I remain unusually quiet, trying to act normal while watching the man in my peripheral. Sabby snickers and giggles like a twelve-year-old girl. I try to avoid looking too obvious and fiddle with the straw in my drink, taking in a few surreptitious glances at the hot fisherman.

You got it, Mason. You want Gina to bring it over to the table?

I feel a hard gaze on me and realize my feigning of disinterest hasn’t worked. I turn to see his eyes scan me from top to bottom as he replies coolly to the bartender. Nah, that’s fine. I don’t mind waiting here. I suck in a breath.

Sabby interrupts by whistling to gain my attention. I snap my head back to find her smiling victoriously, as if she just won a bet.

Okay then, Finny boy. Must run! Call me later, alligator. She winks and then the screen goes black with the beep, beep, beep of the disconnected call.

I stare dumbfounded at the screen before setting the phone down on the counter, picking up my drink, and finishing it off with one fast swallow, coughing as the remaining liquid drains down my throat.

Out of nowhere, the man the bartender called Mason directs his next statement at me. You don’t look like a tall ship enthusiast.

I lick my lips, turning toward him with a shrug. Looks can be deceiving, I guess.

I doubt that, he says, voice rough and with an edge to it. I bet I can tell a lot about you just by your pretty-boy looks.

Swiveling in my chair to fully face him, I finally get a close-up view of this man. And I like what I see. I quirk a skeptical eyebrow, crossing a leg over my knee and my arms over my chest like he did earlier, emphasizing my toned biceps that I work hard to keep looking so good.

Pretty boy, hmm? Well then, by all means, go right ahead. I swing my hand out in an arc in front of me. Let’s hear it. What is it that you think you know about me, Mr. Know-it-All?

He gives me another once-over, squinting those dark eyes, fringed with inky lashes, as they stop to linger on my mouth. I sweep my tongue over my bottom lip and tip the corners up into a knowing smirk.

Mason cocks his head to the side and nods his chin.

"I know your type. You’re a pretty boy, obviously, with that face. And based on your choice of clothing, he gestures with his hand to my outfit, sniffing in the air at my $700 navy patterned Tom Ford sport shirt, gray linen cuffed shorts, and Salvatore Ferragamo textured calfskin loafers, you’re likely college educated, probably an Ivy leaguer who snubs his nose at the working class who are beneath you. If you do work for a living, which is doubtful because you probably live off your rich daddy, but if you do, it’s some cushy high-paying, corner-office, pencil-pushing, bean-counter job. Or maybe, worse yet, you’re one of those vapid fashion models."

I snort out in laughter and grin triumphantly. A fashion model? I know you’re just throwing shade here, but that’s the highest compliment I’ve ever been paid. So, thanks for that.

He has no idea how right he is, but there’s no way I’m giving him the satisfaction. My day job, if you can call it that, is modeling. I started when I was seventeen and it pays for my apartment in Boston, my champagne-taste lifestyle, and my environmental activist travels.

Mason snarls, It wasn’t meant to be a compliment. See? Vapid. Anyway, you stand out like a sore thumb in this town. You should really stick to the big city, Pretty Boy.

He turns back to the bar to grab the tray of drinks left for him at the counter, ready to walk away without another glance. Conner exchanges a curious look with me. One that says, What the hell did you do to get under his skin?

For someone who doesn’t know me and hasn’t interacted with me, I’m confused as to why Mason has clearly developed such a low opinion of me. And I’m curious why that is, even if he did overhear my comments to Sabby about the town..

I reach out my hand and place it on his forearm. He pauses and we both stare at the spot where we connect. My palm burns from the heat of his skin, and I yank my hand back, unnerved by the reaction.

Slow your roll, dude. I throw my hands in the air in surrender. I come in peace. I’m not sure what I did to rub you the wrong way, but why don’t you let me buy you and your friends a round of drinks? You can get to know me and if, at the end of our conversation, you still think those things about me…well, I’ll leave, and you’ll never have to see me again.

His eyes narrow and he glances back at the table where his buddies are now calling for him to hurry up.

Fine. And then I swear I hear him mutter under his breath, That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.

Mason

I don’t know why it bothers me so much, but Finn seems to have become the center of attention with my friends.

Because he’s fun. Unlike you, Mr. I’d-Rather-be-Anywhere-Else-but-Here Grumpy Ass.

I sip my beer as I watch the guys interact with our new guest, who has plied them with shots and beers and buttered them up like a snake charmer. After introductions were made, Finn immediately scored points with the guys with a round of drinks and his charming, exciting stories of his escapades around the world.

I might as well be invisible next to his bright, comet-like existence, as all eyes and ears are